


Love's Got a Hold on Me

by chaisan



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Atlas CEO Rhys, Bickering, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fluff, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed, Slow Dancing, Teasing, Vault Hunter Fiona, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2020-10-24 14:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20707181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaisan/pseuds/chaisan
Summary: A series of scenes after finding the Vault, Fiona finds herself unknowingly falling for the company man.





	1. Of Reverends and Tight Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> I’m like 5 years too late on this, but I love them too much to not contribute something. Honestly didn’t know what to write with them until Rhys’ mustache made an appearance. I originally began writing this as a oneshot, but there’s six scenes and I tend to write a lot, so I’m breaking it up a chapter for each scene :))
> 
> Inspiration came from Fooled Around and Fell In Love by Elvin Bishop. Feedback of any kind is welcome and appreciated! Enjoy!

“Fantastic.”

Rhys is already complaining. She should have known better than to choose him, out of all people, but it was inevitable. August was busy with Sasha on this deal at the Purple Skag, Vaughn was a little too preoccupied with leading all those bandits that had nothing better to do. She couldn’t ask Brick, or Mordecai as much as she wanted to, mainly because this mission was a test of sorts… and then there was this dipshit that she was currently walking alongside with.

She hesitated before contacting him, all those days ago, thinking back to the only requirement she needed to fulfill the mission: a husband. Fiona cringed, but there really was no other choice, unless she picked a random bandit from Vaughn’s clan or even a psycho, though that in of itself wasn’t convincing. But then again, Rhys was a terrible liar and painfully awkward in situations that involved intimacy. Or anything that involved stealth, really.

And she was proven right once again.

From holding hands for a mere few seconds, to the brief peck she placed on his lips before pulling away as if she were burned, his only response was a fiery burn on his cheeks, traveling down his neck and him sputtering idiotically. At the bright crimson tint to his cheeks, Fiona had a feeling Reverend Dill Doe was left unconvinced at their poor attempt at being a couple, already resigning herself to slapping Rhys and giving him an earful after they stepped foot out of that stupid, makeshift palace.

But what a wonderful surprise it was to hear that gravelly voice as he rifled through a chest to recover the item. Well, at least Moxxi could finally find her reliable after the few months of accompanying Athena, training with her until this mission.

Fiona pocketed the final Echo Comm of Handsome Jack’s time with his late ex-lover, Nisha. If there was one thing she could’ve gone without knowing was to hear the disgusting things that occurred behind Jack’s closed doors with the former Sheriff of Lynchwood. Er, well, technically the rather open display, Fiona corrected to herself.

But that was only the beginning of things she would never want to do.

She managed to scavenge through the brisk tundra with Rhys by her side, before he started having doubts. It was rather annoying, honestly. Did he seriously doubt her knowledge in the tundra? Pft! Athena and her had to run to and fro for the past few weeks just to do some stupid task Sir Hammerlock wanted done… something about bullymongs’ fur? She wasn’t completely sure, since Athena was as tight-lipped as ever. It was probably something stupid, anyhow.

However, whatever it was with Rhys, she couldn’t stand to look at that face of his, or hear his inaudible grumblings… or really, anything from him. There’s a twitch of his brows in slight concern that matches the glimmer in his mismatched eyes, and the tinge of pink still dusting his cheeks after what had happened in front of that masked man covered in hearts and disgusting white stains.

Seriously? He’s still caught up in that? What a baby.

Some part of her wells up in anger at a mere sidelong glance into his skeptical eyes. A determined hand smacks his just as a map of the area hovered over his palm. Fiona doesn’t know why he has to do that. The map, she means. As if she doesn’t know what she was doing.

“Oh, don’t go grumbling on me. We’re not lost.” She dismisses, her scarred brow twitching the slightest bit at the tone in his baritone. She knows him long enough to know this is the point of no return. That all he’ll do until they find shelter is talk. And talk. And talk. More so grumbling to himself while she makes herself useful.

“You said that twenty minutes ago.” Rhys supplies flatly. She doesn’t have to crane her neck and meet his mismatched eyes to know he is squinting accusingly at her, but regardless she can practically feel his glare directed at the back of her head as she hastens her steps against the snow.

But Fiona resolutely decides to ignore that small detail, even without looking at the poor sap. One foot stepping in front of the other, hips swaying to an unspoken rhythm, she rolls her eyes to the grey sky. “And? That doesn’t mean we’re lost, Rhys. See? That… cliff looks familiar… and that rock.” She points to her right sheepishly.

Rhys scoffs at her sad attempt. But what the hell did he know anyways? She’s been stuck on Pandora -  _ still _ \- while he was on Promethea, all the way across the galaxy doing who knows what. The hell was his problem about getting lost when they were stuck together trying to find Gortys’ core? Fiona internally shakes her head and shrugs it off. She’s already heated enough just being in his presence again - even though it was her idea.

“ _ Go this way _ , she says.  _ I know the tundra like the back of my hand _ , she says.” He mimics her voice almost unnervingly so.

“Will you quit it? You complaining won’t get us shelter.” She snaps, pausing in her steps to turn and glower at her companion.

“Hm, well you should’ve thought about that  _ before _ getting us lost.” He retorts as he walks past her with a provoking smile. Ugly heat crawls up her neck and something feral in her is nearly at its breaking point. Scratch that, she’s well past her breaking point.

“Fine! We’re lost! But it’s all because of you!” Fiona explodes, hastening her steps to catch up to him, even when he swivels on his heels and looks at her with something of exasperation.

“Me?” Rhys asks with wide eyes, voice cracking in evident disbelief.

Something in her relishes the small victories such as this, getting underneath his skin, just as much as he did to her. “Mhm.” She hums in confirmation, stridding just a few steps out of his reach.

Another scoff meets her ears and a gust of brisk wind sends a tremor all throughout her body. “I’m sorry, but whose idea was it to ask me to accompany you on this mission? As your _ husband _ ?” He questions, though all Fiona can do is keep her mouth shut and tersely fold her arms across her chest in hopes that it would stave off some of the cold… and let him tire himself out. “Or-or whose idea was it to get a Catch-a-ride and ignored it?”

“That was you.” She points out blandly.

And she’s right, she did mention getting a catch-a-ride from Ellie’s station, but for what little rational thought ran in his brain, he dismissed it and said it wasn’t that far off anyways. At the time, Fiona offered him an exasperated look. He really must’ve been getting used to that corporation in Promethea, because from the map he held before they found Reverend Dill Doe’s palace, it seemed like a long journey ahead of them.

“That’s besides the point! Whose idea was it to ignore my map and go the opposite direction?” Rhys fumes, gesturing wildly with his arms outstretched.

She had to admit it’s amusing to get him so riled up. But now, Fiona’s getting tired of hearing his voice - something of which she knows is the complete opposite for him - and heaves out a long suffering sigh. There’s places other than the desolate tundra to do this, specifically places that doesn’t involve trying to dodge pitfalls into the brisk ocean and turning into a block of ice. “Okay, you dope. I get it. You’re mad at yourself.”

“Unbelievable!” He raises his voice, talking to no one in particular. Probably himself. It isn’t completely out of the realm of possibility with the dumbass, considering he sheltered that genocidal maniac in his head for who knows how long.

Regardless, they walk in relative silence, the only sound coming from the snow crunching beneath their feet and the occasional screech of a rakk or an echoed roar from a bullymong in the - hopefully - far distance. Fiona could feel his heated glower pointed at the back of her head, but decides it is a lot more fun to have him quietly seething that voicing anything of the sort.

Minutes tick by, slowly turning into an hour - at least that’s what she assumes with the position of the sun rapidly dipping past the mountain peaks - and she’s quickly losing hope. A part of her wants to smack Rhys’ arm and surrender to defeat and use his damn map, but a large portion of her mind - the rational portion - decides she needs to make a point to the dumbass. The point? Well, that she’s always right.

Before her thoughts get the best of her, her back slackens from the unconscious tension and notes what’s there before her eyes. A beautiful, albeit small, wooden block a bit of a distance away. If Fiona didn’t know better she would’ve thought it’s a wooden crate full of loot. But no. “Rhys.” She calls quitely, eyes glued to, what she assumes was the back of a shack, gesturing blindly towards Rhys’ upper arm to get his attention. “Look, there’s a shack on the horizon.”

At her words, Rhys visibly relaxes and lets out a sigh of immense gratitude. “Oh my god, thank you!” He cries, head tilted back towards Elpis’ bare surface. Before she can get a snarky comment out, he’s already hastily making his way towards the shack, easily moving past her as though she had a contagious disease.

Viridian eyes immediately narrow towards his back. What the hell is his problem? “Hey, dumbass. Don’t get too hasty, there might be bandits and bullymongs around the area.” She calls, just slightly louder than before. Granted, she hasn’t seen any for the past few hours they’ve been trudging through the snow, but if training with Athena taught her anything, it’s to expect the worst. That way, she won’t be disappointed.

Funnily enough, Rhys actually freezes in his spot and looks over his shoulder, blatantly sheepish with that stupid blush on his cheeks again. “Tch, I know. I’m just-just trying to get there before the sun really goes down and we  _ really _ die from hypothermia.” He replies anxiously.

Right. Of course. But then, all of a sudden it makes sense. This doof is still hung up about what happened a few hours ago. She isn’t surprised in the least. It seems as though everything that involves intimacy, he sputters like an idiot… well, more of an idiot than he already is. Seriously, though, it was just a kiss. And the mission called for it. He really should get his head out of the gutter.

“Really?” Fiona says, evidently not believing him for a second. “This has nothing to do with what happened earlier?” She questions not-so-subtly, eyes returning their only shelter for the night.

“Earlier?” He questions, bemused. God, he’s so dense. She offers him a pointed look and the realization strikes. Mismatched eyes widen, shoulders tense, and almost immediately, that fiery flush comes crawling back up his neck, tainting his cheeks all the more. “N-no!” He… squeaks?

Even though he denies it, she can see right through him. Well, specifically the quickening of his footsteps as he avoids her like the plague. Fiona narrows her eyes. What the hell is wrong with him?

They’re so close to the shack that she doesn’t even notice her hurried steps until she’s warily jogging up to his side. But her eyes locks on the imprints of a set of large feet around the perimeter in the snow. Shit. “Wait… Rhys-“ Her voice instinctively lowering to a whisper.

“I-I know,” he stutters, before leading her to a block of ice, squatting. “Bandits.”

“Shit.” She whispers, more to herself than to the lanky company man beside her. With only one of those masked men sitting leisurely atop a loot crate, Fiona leans forward behind the side of the shack and considers her options. Run and gun? Or cut off his oxygen supply for a quiet raid? Both are very tempting given the sky is turning a dark grey compared to the light grey she’s used to seeing, and she wants nothing more than to stave off the freezing cold and cuddle next to a warm fire.

Okay, there’s run and gun. Surely, she’ll make a shit-ton of noise, and this dumbass definitely isn’t the only one here. She could hear a damn radio inside. But that’s not including what kind of guns they’re armed with.

Then there’s choking. Seems easy enough. She’s done it plenty of times. She’s already imagining the next few seconds when the gentle touch of a cold, solid -  _ metal _ \- hand touches her shoulder, pulling her out of her reverie. Unconsciously, a shiver runs down her spine at the gentle touch before deliberately ignoring that stupid feeling and turning to meet brown and gold orbs. And it’s only then that she realizes how close he is to her. Instead of thinking too much into that, she furrows her brows in response.

“What?” Fiona questions, voice low enough for him to hear.

She must’ve caught him doing… _ something _ because suddenly that block of ice they’re hiding behind is very interesting, as well as the light dusting of pink coloring his cheeks. “Oh-uh-nothing,” he stammers awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

Narrowing her eyes further, she decides it isn’t a topic she would get into now. Especially when she can feel the telltale sign of goosebumps prickling underneath her leather coat. “Okay. Whatever. Wait here, I’ll distract him.” She instructs, popping her head up to see the bandit leaning back and whistling some offbeat tune, before edging towards the corner of the ice block.

“Wait. W-why? I can’t go with you?” He says, evidently wounded. Well, that seems to have broken him from whatever that’s on his mind those few seconds ago.

Fiona rolls her eyes and turns to him with an indecipherable gleam. “Rhys, just wait here. It’ll only take longer and draw more attention than necessary if you tag along.” She explains, but that hurt expression of his intensifies. Eyes half lidded, a scowl curving his mouth accusingly. God, why is he such a baby? Seriously? Did he not like the idea of them getting this shack before it gets ridiculously cold? Something in her clicks and she turns to him fully. “Please, for me.” She begs sweetly, feigned innocence beaming in her eyes, or what she hopes is innocence, towards the company man close at her side. It never really works out for her compared to Sasha, but it’s worth a shot.

With a deadpan look on his face and a purse of his lips, he looks away before muttering a, “Fine.” And suddenly, she’s quietly - internally - mulling over the implications from that simple word, but stops herself short. Nope, nope, nope. Too much awkwardness, too little time. 

Fiona swivels on her feet and carefully runs towards the edge of the wooden shack. She’s hidden, watching the bandit twine dirty fingers through his hair, adjusting his mask before continuing to whistle along with the song playing on the radio in the distance. At least he’s preoccupied with all this to hear her footsteps subtly crunching in the snow as she makes her way to him.

She can feel Rhys’ eyes burning at her back while she edges towards the bandit. Knowing full well that she can amaze him with something as simple as choking a man, she easily covers the bandit’s mouth, twisting his head until a crack meets her ears. Fiona’s tempted to catch a glimpse of Rhys’ shocked look, but she can already feel those mismatched, wide eyes gazing at her incredulously. She loves seeing that dumbfounded look on his face. Er — well, okay, not  _ love _ per say but… whatever. It isn’t important.

Shelter!

With the bandit occasionally twitching at her feet, she crouches down the slightest bit and carefully rounds the perimeter of the shack. A group of bullymongs are off in the distance, huddling together near a cave, while music plays louder and louder as she nears the back of the shack. Then, of course, there’s the muffled murmurs of what sounds like two other bandits inside.

Rounding the shack to meet Rhys, she straightens and props a hand on her hip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and perks her scarred brow up to meet his widened eyes.

“Okay, the perimeter is clear, but I highly doubt it would be the same inside this shack, no matter how small it is… And I heard people talking, so there’s that.” Fiona shrugs, moving towards the entrance of the small wooden block, gesturing for Rhys to follow.

“Yeah, I agree. I think I saw someone moving in there when you were doing whatever that was to the one outside.” He mentions, voice barely audible to her ears with the bullymongs roaring in the background - and the fact that he’s attempting to stifle a dry heave from a single glance at the twitching bandit.

A gloved hand reaches for the knob, but she stops short from doing so, just in time from feeling Rhys’ front collide with her back. With a pointed finger and a twitch of her brows, she says, “Hey, you have any better ideas?”

That effectively shut him up because his cybernetic and flesh fingers are fiddling with one another, mismatched eyes looking anywhere but her, and that ever present - weird looking - flush coloring his cheeks. Why is he acting so weird? And why is he blushing so much?

“I-um… no…” He stutters.

“Then shut up.” She says with a roll of her eyes, carefully cracking open the front door. She motions for him to stay quiet, but clearly that wasn’t blatant enough, given that she heard footsteps coming closer to them and a soft snort from Rhys behind her.

“Fi, I think I know-” He begins with a slight chuckle.

Before they’re discovered, her mind scrambles and the hairs at her nape bristle. “Oh, for - come here.” Fiona intervenes, swiveling on the balls of her feet to grasp at his vest-thingy and tug him towards a hidden corner. She thanks Elpis that this tattered shelf kept them hidden as the footsteps grow louder, creaking against the old wood.

“Fi-“ He whispers, but she isn’t dealing with his shit. Especially when she had to listen to him complaining for the past five hours.

_ Why me, Fi?  _ Then the,  _ God, why do I always agree to doing things like this?  _ And of course, his favorite response to every decision she makes,  _ unbelievable! _

Fiona nearly rolls her eyes to Elpis above, but instead opts for a terse, yet quiet, “Shut up,” and covers his mouth with her hand. Honestly, she didn’t think before doing it. But it’s too late to back out, even though the look on his face is totally worth the risk.

Wide eyes, body incredibly tense, and that faint feeling of heat beneath her palm. However, as much as it’s distracting, she quickly abandons the thought.

The footsteps creaking against floorboards beneath the bandit comes closer and closer, louder and louder, and Fiona doesn’t dare move a muscle.

Of course this would happen. One of  _ the _ most cliche things to happen with someone she hates… okay, she doesn’t hate Rhys, even though he makes it easy to. But this really isn’t what she wants to think about. Not when her hand is closed over his mouth. Not when their fronts are pressed flush against one another… oh dear lord, their hips.

“Where you goin’?” A voice asks, voice muffled as though they were somewhere far.

Fiona’s grateful for the much needed distraction. She didn’t want to think of Rhys and…  _ that _ in the same sentence. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought… or is it the tiniest shifts Rhys took to his left?

Actually no, it definitely is Rhys this time. He’s squirming slightly, restless for whatever it is in his thoughts. With narrowed eyes she shoots him a wary and questioning glance, patience running thin, but abruptly, he stops. She feels a shock of heat on his cheeks that her fingers touched, and watches as a fiery flush crawls up his neck. Mismatched eyes look anywhere but her, staring at…  _ something _ interesting on the wall above her head.

But then she feels it. Shit. This  _ really _ isn’t what she wanted to deal with when bringing him along. A flush raises up her neck and tints her cheeks that matches his own, but fortunately he can’t see that with his vantage point and her hat that shields most of her face. Fiona narrows her eyes threateningly towards the man pressed so close to her. But he was very clearly avoiding anything revolving her. Even going as far as laying his palms flat against the shelf behind him lest he accidentally grazes her clothes and she sets him on fire.

No. No. No. Focus. The mission. Bandits!

“I thought I heard something, Bob.” Says another voice, raspy and deep, close to their hidden forms, just seconds before the bandit’s back is turned towards them. Emerald irises widen the slightest bit at how close the bandit is. Quite literally, within arms reach.

“Seriously, man? We’re in the middle of the tundra. There ain’t nothin’ here besides bullymongs and rakks.” The other responds almost impatiently… Bob?

The bandit sighs aloud, gloved hands propped at his hips. “I’m serious.” The one near them says with an impatient shake of his head.

“And I’m serious, too. C’mon, man. Let’s just finish this pizza, it’s all in your head.” Bob says. Good for Bob for not believing his friend because it gives them the perfect excuse to finally move after a noncommittal hum is heard from the bandit as he threads dirty fingers through greasy hair.

Fiona jerks her roshambo out and pulls the trigger, fast and painless, just as Athena taught her. However, before they jump in victory, Bob comes running over to his bandit friend. A gun is cocked in his grasp, though she shifts her arm and pulls the trigger once more towards the man. But he dodges the corrosive bullet and aims for her head.

Dropping down and ducking as best as she can given Rhys’ body against her front, Fiona blindly shoots towards the bandit until the ringing in her ears subside and that awful music replaces the gunshots. The green cloud of corrosive fades and she sags against the wall in visible relief at the sight of the two bandits laying on the floor, blood pooling beneath them. That is, until she realizes what’s exactly at her eye level, something she didn’t ever want to be near: Rhys’ crotch.

He’s still as frozen as ever, but she’s tired and cold, and as much as his body heat is enough to get her to relax the slightest bit, she’d rather jump in some nasty bed than her current position. “Move, idiot.” She growls with a sharp punch to his thigh.

Rhys follows through with her demand, clutching at his left limb with mutterings of evident pain and a glower towards her. But that didn’t stop her from standing, meandering through the small shack and considering their options.

“That could’ve ended up way worse than it did, thanks.” Rhys finally says. From the corner of her eyes she can see him awkwardly adjusting his striped trousers, and she immediately burns the gross image away with a single squeeze of her lids and wills that weird feeling in the pit of her stomach to go away.

Folding her arms underneath her bust, she stubbornly focuses her attention on anything but the company man beside her and glances around the small shack. “Yeah, well I’m not gonna let some dipshit bandit make me keel over and kick the bucket.  _ Especially _ not when we managed all this so far.” She replies blindly, before discovering Rhys mimicking her. Whether he did it on purpose or not is beyond Fiona, but she scans the area nonetheless. It’s quaint. Tattered and utterly nondescript, but it’s infinitely better than freezing to death before bullymongs get to them first.

There’s a staircase just across the shelf they hid themselves behind, a stray toilet off to the side, two chairs and a table with that irritating radio still playing god awful music, and a box of Moxxi’s pizza. She turns off the radio and considers the last slice of pizza for a moment, but ultimately decides against it when she catches sight of blood somehow on the food. Then there’s Rhys. He’s poking and prodding the wood holding the shack together with that thoughtful look crossing his face.

Viridian orbs stray on him with a disbelieving gaze as she sits down, catching him visibly bristle and tuck both hands in his pockets. “Well, at least there’s some wood to block our inevitable death from the bullymongs’ fists.” He says sardonically before meeting her at the table.

“Hey, better than being out in the open with rakks dive bombing us, bandits shooting at us, again, and bullymongs beating us up, right?” She responds with a chuckle, smacking his shoulder. But that earns her a deadpan expression and a firm frown. Wow. Who knew her saving his life - yet again - would get him to act like the man baby he is. “Oh, come on, Rhys. Just look on the bright side. We finally have shelter. I’m actually surprised this is still intact.”

“Yeah… yeah I guess you’re right.” Rhys agrees wearily. 

Snorting, Fiona leans back in her chair and crosses her legs, though the creak from her weight is disconcerting enough to have her pause for a moment. “Of course I’m right, I’m always right.” She says with a smug smirk.

A suffering sigh escapes the man across from her. “Fi, just… stop.” And shockingly, she complies. It must’ve been all the walking, or maybe it’s just the slivers of moonlight filtering in from cracks between the wooden planks, but the shadows play oddly against his tired face. Honestly, it’s weird to see Rhys like this: staring distractedly at the last slice of pizza, though his thoughts must’ve been miles away. Thankfully enough, a chill courses down her spine and she shakes herself out of her inner musings, standing and discovering a tiny corner tucked underneath the staircase.

Whatever god that was out there must’ve blessed them, because she finds a frayed furnace, small enough to hold a few planks of wood that settles beside the old metal. Fiona’s gesturing wildly for Rhys, and when he’s nearly slouching beside her, she nudges his arm with an elbow. “You know, I can always shoot an elemental at it.” She suggests, looking up at him.

But all he does is half heartedly shake his head. “No… no, I’d rather you not blow us up.” He answers tiredly, before walking away.

“Just a suggestion.” Fiona mutters, following him towards the entrance of the shack. 

“Let’s just… keep looking. A blanket or something is bound to show up.” He suggests, already squatting down and scanning the shelves. But she takes one glance at the dead bodies and opts to drag them out of the way. Even just to the loot crate the other bandit lays near is sufficient enough. And when she comes back in, Rhys is making his way up the stairs, the creaks setting her nerves in evident unease. Regardless, she follows behind him and nearly collides with his back when he stops at the top of the stairs. Fucking hell. With an irritated twitch to her brow, Fiona’s damn near about to shove him out of the way, but stops herself from doing so when he drawls, “... And there’s one bed.”

Peeking around his cybernetic arm, she sees it. The single, threadbare bed. It’s nothing short of disgusting. The bed frame looks as though it’ll fall into the furnace below it with any given weight. Then there’s the actual mattress that more than likely had been pissed on. “Of course there is.” She sags, considering the small room. There’s just barely enough room for them to share the bed, but that’ll never happen. And the floor, even though it’s immensely more disgusting than the bed, it’s better than sitting up, right? “Okay, that’s fine.” Fiona mutters, perching her hands upon her waist and nodding.

“W-wait really?” Rhys stutters incredulously as she moves past him.

Nodding once more, Fiona rounds the mattress, opting for the side nearest to the wall. “Yeah, you get the floor.” She says calmly.

An undignified sound escapes Rhys’ throat that has her instantly looking up as she sits on the mattress warily. “Tch, no! Do you see how grimy the floor is?” He complains, pointing to the ground likely covered with insect shit.

Nonplussed, she nods once. “Yeah, exactly why I suggested it.” Fiona cracks a pleased smile before taking her hat off, leaning back against her forearms crossed behind her head, stretching aching muscles and releasing a satisfied sigh. The mattress is not nearly as comfortable as the one she usually sleeps in, but it’ll make do with what little they have.

Fiona notices Rhys doesn’t move a muscle, glaring at her with a pout jutting his lower lip out. “You are a horrible, horrible person, you know that right?” He asks, crossing his arms with a childish huff.

“Eh, I’ve been called worse.” She dismisses by closing her eyes. 

There’s more sputtering that she hears to her right, but she pays no heed to the man still standing in his spot. And it isn’t until she can practically hear the gears working so hard in that tiny brain of his that he brows furrow. “Wait a minute, what happened to being married?”

Her eyes snap open at the sly tone in his voice. “I’m sorry, what?” No, no, no. She must’ve heard him wrong. There’s no way in hell he already broke their promise of keeping this mission between sealed lips. They even swore with a pinky promise! The audacity!

“As I recall, you called me your husband, Fi.” He clarifies, that stupid smirk lining his thin lips, as though he caught her.

Fiona only closes her eyes once again and shifts the smallest bit into the lumpy mattress. “That’s only for the mission. And don’t ever bring that up again.” She warns, her tone uncompromising. Because, truthfully, if he ever brings it up again, she’ll probably have to kill him or strangle him, or even ask Maya or Brick to do her bidding.

“Are we not still on the mission?” Rhys presses further, which only irks her even more. But she keeps silent, crimson lips pressing into a firm frown and attempting - but failing - to drown out the man a little more than a foot away from her. When she doesn’t respond, Rhys gently nudges the mattress just enough to stir her. “Come on, sweetie. You’re really gonna treat your husband like that?” He asks, baritone dripping with saccharine.

Fiona doesn’t know what breaks in her, but she has just about had it with him. Sitting up with an incredulous look on her face, she regards him. “First of all, don’t call me sweetie. It’s disgusting and degrading to my reputation. And second of all, we’re not sharing the bed. It’s too small and I’d rather not get drool on my shoulder again.” She’s already positioning herself to face the wall and ignore Rhys behind her, but she hears a sarcastic hum rumbling in his throat that has her eyes twitching.

“But you don’t deny the husband part.” He mentions, the smile audible in his voice.

Blood boiling with ire, Fiona sits up once again. “Rhys, I’m about five seconds away from punching you in the neck again.” She threatens, a hand already clenching into a fist to show that she isn’t fucking around. Because, yes, she’ll do it again, and again, and again if it means he’ll shut up about the only damn requirement for this stupid mission.

A cybernetic and flesh hand are up in surrender, but his face says otherwise. Viridian eyes stray on him warily while she settles against the lumpy surface once more, and Rhys squats over the grimy floor. “Fine, fine. Just know that you’re missing out on some  _ amazing  _ cuddles, and warmth for the night. Who knows if you freeze yourself to death while you’re asleep.” He sings a little, the smile on his face pulling into an outright grin.

But even she can’t help but laugh at the prospect. “Pft, like you can warm me up with your stick of a body.” She cackles to herself. For one, one of his arms is cold, hard, metal. And two, he can barely sting enough heat for himself without thinking he’ll die from hypothermia, simply because he doesn’t have enough meat on his bones.

Fiona doesn’t know how her mocking cackle indicates an invitation of sorts, but Rhys takes it upon himself to perch himself at the very edge of the mattress. “Oh, sure I can. My cybernetics can heat up to an extent, Fi. Not too hot, obviously. We don’t want it to explode on me like it did the first time, but it’s better than nothing.”

Heedfully, she eyes the cybernetic arm that he’s flexing and considers it. But then it occurs to her that maybe he’s lying. Honestly, if she were him, she’d be lying too, but this is Rhys she’s talking about. He’s a little too honest for his own good. And the longer her eyes flicker from the metal limb to mismatched eyes, she realizes he’s tempting her by wiggling his brows. However, that only makes her recoil and want to say no… but the huddled warmth would definitely feel a lot better than being tense all night. “...Ugh, fine.” Fiona groans, scooting to her edge of the bed. “But only on one condition,” she warns just as he’s happily swinging his legs onto the mattress.

Freezing in his spot, his eyes are wide as he regards her from the corner of his eye. “I-uh… what?”

“No wandering hands. I don’t wanna shoot you in the dick in the middle of the night.” She says casually. Laying down with her back to him, Fiona can sense Rhys’ muscles are taut, if the lack of movement from the poor sap is of any indication.

“I-um… wouldn’t dream of it… I-it actually-“ Rhys babbles like an idiot. 

But she’s tired of hearing his voice, so she mutters a quick, “Rhys, just lay down.”

“Got it, got it.” He adds hastily. There’s movement from the man behind her given the pressure on the lumpy mattress, and the telltale signs of him setting his cybernetic up for one of the only heat sources they’ll have for the night. After he whispers a few things to his arm, welcoming heat warms her back and she quickly closes her eyes at the sensation. “Goodnight, Fi.” Rhys mumbles behind her - a little too close for her liking, but her muscles ache and she’s not ready to move again.

“Night, Skaglips.” She replies smugly.

Affronted, Rhys jerks back from his position. “Fiona!” If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he’s deliberately trying to wake up the whole herd of bullymongs near the shack. “That doesn’t count! You caught me by surprise!” He defends, but all she can do is smile.

Truthfully, it’s hard not to let out a cackle at that. If memory serves her correctly, she recalls the dread coursing in her veins as they finally met with Reverend Dill Doe all those hours ago, and the even more immense dread for having to comply with the bulky dumbass and kiss the man behind her. Of course, he flailed. The kiss - if she can even call it that - lasted no more than a mere second, but it was enough of an impression of Rhys that she didn’t ever want to venture in. He’s hardly good at anything and of course, that isn’t an exception. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Skaglips. Now shut up, we need the sleep.” She says, her aching body screaming for some rest. No more than a few minutes of silence pass that she’s already feeling that vaguely numb, tingly sensation of falling asleep… and the sensation of vast warmth settling delicately around her waist, but that must’ve been her imagination.


	2. Dripping in Drakefruit and Gambling Splendor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you guys who commented because it always brightens my day reading them <3 Feedback of any kind is welcome and appreciated! Enjoy!

If there’s one thing Fiona could do without, it’s the amount of Atlas suckups bowing to her. She’s used to the stealth of being a con artist and the flagrancy of being a vault hunter. But definitely not being revered as some sort of hero, especially on Promethea. A place she’s never stepped foot on. Least of all cared to visit. She’s always had her eyes set on Dionysus, the place of paradise, where she and Sasha could easily be sipping on some liquor in complete luxury.

But now that she thinks about it, this is a close second.

Why she’s on this high-tech planet, well, she isn’t quite sure. Rhys contacted her in the middle of the night a few days ago - just as she was huddled down behind a few boulders with Mordecai - and he was in evident distraught. Whatever it was he’s panicking about had been piercing enough to get noticed by their Queen Spiderant, because his voice rang through her Comm louder than she expected. Mordecai hissed out a curse before shooting away with his sniper, while she squeezed her eyes in frustration and repeatedly fired at the grotesque creature.

As irritated as she was, Fiona - for reasons completely beyond her comprehension - entertained him through the gunfire. He spoke a million miles a minute and she barely heard anything beyond the fact that he wanted her to get to Promethea within a few days, and buy something ‘nice’ despite the loud booms between her and Mordecai. Before she could even get a word for response, the other line was dead, the Queen Spiderant laid lifeless on the dirt, and suddenly there was a small fortune deposited into her bank.

She wasn’t complaining, but her thoughts raced in relentless circles at what exactly he wanted and more specifically,  _ why _ he wanted her in something ‘nice’. But the more she thought about it, the more she felt the need to take a bath just at how gross that was and the fact that her nerves were filled with adrenaline didn’t help matters any more than she expected. Regardless, she appeased him, going to the damn planet he lived on by way of Sanctuary, and purchased an outfit: a black pencil skirt that stopped just little more than midthigh, a white button up, and pointed heels.

When she reached the hotel Rhys booked for her - saying one thing or another about his apartment was ‘still in the works’ she had to narrow her eyes in confusion - Fiona could hardly believe that there was some unknown part of Promethea’s advancement that was from the company man. Everything was sleek and spotless, completely divergent of Pandora as a whole, while a few cookies with pieces of drakefruit that were imbedded in the dough were perched so delicately on her bedside table. She tossed her clothes and hat to the side and fought back the irresistible urge to smile at the soft sheets she was immersed in.

Though, as much as she silently relished the lap of luxury, she’d never tell Rhys that.

It’s strange because even as a new Vault Hunter, it’s difficult to get familiar with the feel of luxury around her. Gods know Lilith and Maya alone have more money than she ever will - at least not without conning, that is - and it’s odd because she’s always prepared to fight, to shoot one thing or another without heed.

Regardless, once she adorned the outfit she purchased and headed for Atlas Headquarters, she couldn’t deny the feigned feeling of corporate power tingling through her veins. It worried her that she - in some sick way - liked the feeling of striding into the facility with that obnoxious clack of her pointed heels against concrete. It sounded of corporate assholes, big egos, and sugary coffee for chumps who acted like spoiled children.

But once she reached the common square, the atmosphere changed almost immediately.

A foot in front of another, hips swaying, Fiona steps to an unspoken rhythm while warily watching the corporate dicks and Atlas soldiers bow to her with an expression of awe and blatant shock. It’s distracting, to say the least, especially when a crowd starts to form around her. But what’s even more distracting is the fact that she hardly knows where to go. She’s surrounded by glass buildings to her sides and an even taller glass building to her front. She must’ve been in a courtyard of some sort given the grass and the few tables strewn about, but a part of her assumes his office is in the tallest building.

Regrettably, Fiona wants to ask some poor sap about it, but the words die in her throat. “I-um…” She says unintelligably when she catches sight of a woman holding a clipboard down the path she unintentionally forces apart. The woman glances over her shoulder, and immediately her eyes are wide with shock, bowing hastily, repeatedly, as though she were a god. 

What the hell?

Fiona can hardly figure out what’s going on, and opts to press forward, attempting to ignore the blatant stares of awe and the whispers all around her. Despite trying to avoid stretching her ears, she couldn’t help it - even faltering in her footing for a moment - at the words that comes from some random employee.  _ Oh, she’s definitely the top,  _ she hears that has her scarred brow quirking up. Then the responding,  _ man, the Boss will be having some fun today _ , with a few chuckles hidden in there as well.

She doesn’t know what they’re talking about nor does she care to know, but Fiona can only come up with a few reasons as to why so many of Rhys’ employees are acting accordingly. Some are cursing in terse whispers and exchanging bills of cash, while others outright grin as they take said bills.

Pressing forward sternly, Fiona continues her walk. That is, until she manages to hear a familiar cheery voice through the throng of whispers. “Fiona!”

_ Oh, thank god,  _ she thinks to herself, visibly relaxing at the fraction of familiarity in all that is foreign around her. “Hey, Gortys.” Fiona greets with a genuine smile. The ball of a robot comes rolling to her side and easily guides her through the gathering crowd, as if they aren’t there at all. Is this normal for Atlas? Is this what they usually do for their guests, or is it just her?

Something in her has an inkling it’s just her, but that line of thought doesn’t bode well, so she quickly abandons it and focuses on Gortys to her right.

“It’s been so long! It’s been exactly three hundred and twenty seven days since we last saw each other.” The robot beside her beams, arms gesturing wildly that has Fiona’s interest all the more piqued, and a little worried.

“I… you’ve been counting?” She asks warily.

“It’s in my systems,” Gortys responds with a gentle nudge to Fiona’s leg and a dismissive wave of her hand.

Nodding, all she can conjure up is a hum in thought. Truthfully, and regardless if it’s unintentional or not, seeing that the little robot counts the days since their last encounter is a little depressing. Fiona bites her lower lip and cringes for a moment at knowing damn well the reason why she’s been gone is simply because of Athena’s training and all this new Vault Hunting business… But also because of Rhys’ confession before they entered the Vault nearly a year ago. That still confused the hell out of her.  _ I’m interested in someone else _ . What the hell did that mean? She always assumed it’s Zero because of how clammy he got whenever the masked man walked in, but with the way some people talked about how she’s the top—

No, no, no. Definitely not. Wouldn’t happen in a million years. She would have to be insane to ever let that happen on her own volition.

With a sharp inhale, Fiona observes the robot to her side. “Mn, are these new upgrades I see?” She questions, the smile in her voice evident as she points towards Gortys’ arms.

Delighted, she immediately perks up. “Oh, yeah! Rhys wanted to upgrade my finger guns. He did the same with Loader Bot, too!” Gortys chirps before continuing. “Wanna see?”

“How about after I see Skaglips?” Fiona says, smirking. Not only because of the nickname, but also because the thought of Rhys upgrading both Gortys and Loader Bot’s arms solely for the purpose of improving their finger guns has her nearly rolling her eyes to the sky.

“Who’s Skaglips?” The robot beside her asks in utter bewilderment.

Fiona tenses up for a moment. No one knows about that besides Sasha and obviously the dipshit himself, but it’s not like Gortys is about to go run her mouth like Rhys usually does… right? “Oh, um, Rhys. He called me in the middle of the night to come over. He sounded like he was panicking, so it's my job to stress him out even more.” She explains, attempting to hide the smile in her voice even though she knows it’s fruitless.

“Really? My job is to greet his guests and help him whenever he needs it!” Gortys responds, hunching her shoulders with hands clasped together.

“Yeah, I think he needs more than a little help,” she jokes, but is it really a joke if it’s true? She isn’t quite sure, but the thought alone has a chuckle dying in her throat before his employees think she’s another crazy Pandoran or whatnot.

When Fiona catches sight of Gortys’ expression, blatant confusion replaces the smile that was there a moment ago. “What do you mean?”

All she does is wave a dismissive hand in the air just as they enter the tallest building in the facility. “Nothing, nothing, just some other stuff. Anyways, I love the new upgrades. You’re too cute, Gortys.” She compliments hastily.

Sleek doors part and Gortys leads her into the elevator. Of course, all around them - for the exception of the doors - are glass. And if she looks down, which she did, she can see the large group of employees watching them ascend to Rhys’ office. A few leave the scene, but the majority of them stay, for reasons that are unknown to her. 

“Thanks! You too!” The robot replies with a slight wiggle and another nudge to her leg, but she stops and regards her outfit with all seriousness. “Actually, is that a new outfit?” Gortys asks, gesturing towards her button up tucked into the tight skirt.

Nodding, Fiona unconsciously runs the palms of her hands down the skirt to smooth the wrinkles free from the fabric. “Yeah, he mentioned something about looking ‘nice’, although I’m still a little confused about that since he was out of breath… and panicking.” She adds with a quirked brow.

An all knowing sound hums from the robot at her side, before Gortys brings her hand up to shield her words as though someone were listening in on their conversation. Wait a minute.  _ Is _ there someone doing just that? “He seems to be doing that a lot recently.” She mutters mischievously. 

Bemused, her thoughts falter. “I… Is he okay?” She asks, but then realizes her mistake. When is Rhys ever okay? Since she has - unfortunately - known him, all he does is repeatedly fuck everything up, regardless if it’s on his own volition or not. Honestly, at times it’s frustrating, especially when it came to the deal with the Gortys project and the Vault of the Traveler, but even she can understand that most of the time his fuck ups are a different form of entertainment she never knew she needed until she met him. For one, it’s not her. Two, she relishes the idea of Rhys suffering - not too much, though, because she does hold some form of mercy towards the man. And three, it’s not her.

“Just fine!” Gortys says happily, though even then the robot’s voice is anything but convincing. Silence lapses over them until a small bell meets her ears and the doors part once more. “His office is just down the hall.” She says, pointing towards the only set of double doors across from them up the stairs.

Stepping out of the elevator and into a long hallway, she notes that it’s immensely colder than the outdoors and elevator for some odd reason. Then she notes the fact that Gortys isn’t following her, and instead, opting to awkwardly hover over the Atlas logo placed on the glossy floors. Utterly confused, Fiona tucks a stray strand of red behind her ear and eyes the robot with mild concern. “Gortys? You’re not coming?”

“Oh! I’d love to, but when Rhys gets in  _ those moods _ he’s in - like today - he doesn’t want anybody past this point.” She points towards the red imprint happily. However, that only bewilders Fiona further. 

She tries - successfully - to stifle a snort threatening to escape. “And people listen to him?” There’s nothing more shocking than thinking Rhys holds this much power over his employees. Sure, he’s the CEO of Atlas now, but the title never really connected until seeing all those people in the courtyard bowing to her. 

“Mhm.” Gortys hums in confirmation.

Viridian eyes flicker from the robot to the glass double doors, and back again in a continuous cycle. Is she missing something here? Because it feels like she’s out of the loop. Fiona knows they’ve been a little reluctant to contact one another since the mission with Reverend Dill Doe a few weeks back, but she doesn’t know how much she missed in that short time frame. 

Bending down the slightest bit with wary eyes, Fiona lowers her voice for only Gortys to hear. “Should I be concerned? I mean, I know this is just Rhys, but…” she drawls.

“Oh, no. Don’t worry! He’s just been stressed about what he said in his meeting a few days ago. And right now, I can detect he’s anxious waiting for you! Nothing serious!” Gortys dismisses with a wave of her hand. But that doesn’t alleviate Fiona’s thoughts, much less her worries about the company man… er, well, she’s not  _ worried  _ about him, more so she’s curious as to what happened with this so-called meeting he had. Because if there’s one thing she can do for the situation, it’s to make fun of him for it.

Taking a deep breath in, she straightens her back and faces the double doors at the end of the hallway. “O-kay. Well, better kill two birds with one stone.” She says underneath her breath.

But before she can even take another step in the direction of Rhys’ office, Gortys asks, “There’s birds in the facility?”

Fiona bites the inside of her cheek to quell the need to release a chuckle at how adorable the little robot is. “No-no I… just forget about it. I’ll see you later.” She says with a wave of her hand, Gortys mirroring her and still awkwardly stopped at her spot over the red circle.

There isn’t much she is - or has been - expecting with Atlas headquarters, let alone Rhys’ office, but it definitely isn’t this. It’s no wonder why he’s been so busy for the majority of the year they’ve parted ways, given the newest prototypes of guns from the new-and-improved corporation. Then there’s this empire he’s building on Promethea, and of course, his office. The plants at both of her sides strangely intimidate her as she passes them, but it’s nothing compared to the way she falters in her step once she meets glass doors. Peeking inside from behind the glass, Fiona can already see a lot of time and planning has been put into this. How long? She doesn’t want to know.

Regardless, she carefully swings open the door, silent as ever, and scans the vast room. There’s a bunch of cloth covering certain areas of the office - like that of the perimeter of the room, while the rest of the areas are deliberately designed with ‘class’ and ‘elegance’ in mind. Or at least what Rhys thinks is class and elegance, which isn’t much considering the man used to sport skagskin boots.

Fiona saunters throughout the wide room, passing four chairs to her left, and to her right, all immersed in a shit ton of books and antiques. In all honesty, it reminds her of Hammerlock’s study on Sanctuary. She passes more draping chairs and books, until she is submerged in a flurry of narrow, dangling cloth, awed for a mere few seconds from the view of Promethea behind his desk, but easily recovers and finds Rhys fretting over food splayed out on the undoubtedly expensive wood.

Bemused, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, folding her arms underneath her bust, and tilts her head to the side as she has yet to make a sound of her presence. Something strange in this situation has a smile unconsciously tugging at her lips at the thought that Rhys is anxious over frosting a… cake? 

“You okay there, Skaglips?” She asks.

That earns her a visible bristle from the man as he accidentally squeezes the pouch of icing from getting caught. “Oh, Fi, you’re here! I didn’t hear you come in.” He says in evident distress, before she catches his gaze roving her body. “And you’re in… that.” He says in a near groan, though she’s more confused about the fact that she can hear the audible gulp and incoherent mutterings underneath his breath, and witness the crimson tint his cheeks.

Curious, Fiona steps forward tentatively and considers everything just as he returns to the cake and attempts to fix his mistake with trembling hands. “You did say something ‘nice’... What’s all this?” She questions, gesturing towards the platters filled with various foods. It’s more than she’s used to, and definitely appears to be a higher quality than she’s ever thought she’d try in her lifetime.

He’s still hunched over a pink cake, but he tries to smile over his shoulder. Honestly, it looks more like he’s trying to keep himself from shitting everywhere, but that’s just her opinion. “L-lunch!” He stammers, before releasing a series of anxious chuckles and returning to the white frosting in his grasp. “Why do you ask?”

Irked and slightly concerned for the dumbass, Fiona narrows her gaze towards Rhys. “Okay, first of all, there’s a bunch of food on your desk- and  _ stop _ icing that cake-“ She says a little too seriously. It’s enough to get him to actually stop, which surprises her all the more when he stands straight, hands still grasping the icing pouch at his front.. “Second of all, you’re so frantic that I can see you shaking all the way from here. And third of all, you called me in the middle of the night, which made me and Mordecai’s target attack us, just because you asked me to pay you a visit in a nice outfit, or does that not ring a bell?” Rhys is stubbornly quiet, blatantly refusing to address the elephant in the room, so to speak. And it doesn’t help to make matters worse when that stupid blush comes crawling down his neck. Or is the color just draining from his face? Regardless, it gets her scarred brow to raise at the strange sight. “What the hell is going on, Rhys? You’re acting weirder than usual.”

Her point is only proven further by the way he tenses up and his mismatched eyes widen. “N-nothing, nothing! Pft, nothing’s weird here! Nope!” He dismisses with a wave of his hand as he fidgets with the encasing of frosting.

Utterly unconvinced, Fiona asks a bland, “Really?”

“Yes!” He replies, gulping audibly and clearly avoiding her eyes by turning and fretting over the food again.

Fiona slowly nods once with a frown. “Then why are all your employees  _ bowing _ to me?” She asks, stressing the word, because the thought of what happened a mere few minutes ago is enough to get her skin to crawl, and that’s not including what and why said employees were exchanging bills despite her not fully knowing what they were wagering on. When Rhys doesn’t respond, she presses forward. “Is that what they usually do to your guests?”

“Food!” He yelps out, his baritone squeaking.

Confused, Fiona regards the man opposite to her with a tilt of her head. He finally puts the pouch of frosting down on the surface of his desk and rounding the slab of wood to sit in his chair, though that’s to say without the telltale look of a man evidently scared out of his wits. She isn’t quite sure what’s got into him, but if he’s scared, it’s probably something she won’t like hearing. “Rhys, get ahold of yourself.” She says.

“Uh-yeah! I got us lunch and, look, I’ll explain everything later… just,” he gestures with his flesh hand towards the only empty chair directed across from him. 

Of course, she’s hesitant, but the idea of food and alcohol - especially the liquor he has perched at the corner of his desk - tempts her. “Right.” Fiona utters underneath her breath, taking her seat and easily crossing her limbs.

They make - surprisingly pleasant - small talk as she nibbles at her dish of fancy crumpets drizzled with drakefruit sauce. It’s delicious, but she would never voice it aloud to the man across from her. However, she sips at her glass of wine, and as much as it’s weird to taste something so divergent of Pandoran liquor, she kinda likes it. Again, she’d never say a word about it, but it pairs well with the crumpets and the other dishes she can hardly pronounce.

Regardless, she can’t help but to hide the smile behind patting her painted lips with the napkin at her side. It’s odd because she feels the need to accentuate what little sophistication she has on the planet. It also doesn’t alleviate the situation when she’s eating food from a silver platter compared to Pandoran muck a local bars and whatnot - as well as the fact that the majority of the Atlas corporation bows to her like a god.

Yet, with one glance at Rhys, she’s pulled out of her reverie and duly notes he is utterly taut. He is still anxious as ever, shoving down healthy gulps of food into his mouth that causes her to sit back into her chair and watch him with a shiver of aversion and maybe a little fascination. There’s that faraway glint in his brown and gold orbs that tell her he truly isn’t present in the conversation, as though he were stuck on whatever he’s been internally panicking about.

Fiona has just about had it with him. It’s difficult to string any words beyond the first sentence without seeing that glazed yet dreaded glimmer in his eyes, and ultimately getting annoyed from feeling as though she were talking to a wall.

Carding slim fingers through her short hair, Fiona regards Rhys blankly. “So, you gonna tell me why you’re acting like a skag pup afraid of their own shadow?” She asks, temper thinning just as the uncomfortable silence stretches.

He’s startled, for whatever reason, and immediately looks like he’s about to vomit all the food he ate. “I… okay. But please don’t get angry about it.” He begs with hands brought together as though he’s praying.

But that only piques Fiona’s curiosity all the more, and a small part of her relishes the idea that he has to beg her. However, just as she thought it, it’s quickly hidden in the dark depths in her mind where she never wants to revisit again.

Picking a piece of drakefruit meat between her teeth with the tip of her tongue, she shakes her head. “You know, when you say that I already know I’m going to get angry. Just spit it out.”

“Okay, okay.” He says, levelling his breathing cycles and looking as though he’s trying to conjure up the courage to spit out whatever had him so taut. Waiting for him, Fiona takes a sip of her wine and takes it upon herself to cut a slice of the cake covered in drakefruit icing with slanted cursive that wrote out,  _ I’m sorry _ . “I-I… a meeting I had a few days ago  _ kinda _ got out of hand.” He confesses as she glances at him from the corner of her eye.

“I heard. Gortys told me you said something?” She recalls, tapping her chin and pursing her lips.

“Shit.” He groans, eyes squeezing shut and head dipping down into his hands in defeat. Is he crying? Or is that just the groan still rumbling in his throat? What the actual hell?

An inappropriate cackle nearly spills past her crimson lips, but she has half a mind to refrain from doing so. Instead, she trains her features and quirks a brow up in scrutiny. “Rhys,” she warns.

“I kinda- _ sorta _ told the people in the meeting that… you’re-my-wife. Please don’t kill me!” He says quickly, ducking down into his chair with arms shielding his face that’s very clearly wincing, and a leg scrunching up to protect his abdomen.

A flare of indignation shoots through her nerves. She can feel the heat coloring her cheeks as she narrows her eyes towards the company man across from her, but she doesn’t move an inch, despite the fact that it’s remarkably tempting to reach over the desk and throw a punch at him, or even kick him in the shin underneath his desk. Truthfully, she should be doing just that, considering he paraded their fake relationship around like a huge sign stuck to his body just to impress his colleagues. Somewhere deep down in her doubting thoughts, she had a feeling he’d do that, because the dumbass really couldn’t keep anything to himself, so her thinking he would with the mission, made her the fool for believing in him.

However, all she does is slowly nod and lean back into her chair as though she’s considering the situation. Which she is, because she’ll be damned to let this whole thing go when they pinky promised they’d never bring it up again, but it’s much more entertaining to see him squirm from her silence anyways. Fiona realizes how childish she’s acting -  _ pinky promises _ and  _ tantrum-like silences  _ \- but she doesn’t give a shit. 

“So that explains the ‘nice outfit’, the lunch, and the bowing.” She says with a low voice, using air quotation marks to emphasize her point.

A nervous chuckle escapes him as he peeks between his splayed fingers. “Yeah… w-wait you’re not gonna kill me?” He asks apprehensively.

Fiona shrugs as she takes a bite into the piece of cake she has perched on the fork. “Rhys, there’s one thing I definitely learned from being a con artist all those years and it’s to never blow your cover. Whatever it may be.” She explains, shifting her legs to cross over the other, and in the process barely grazing his exposed bit of cat socks with the tip of her heel.

Another nervous chuckles leaves him just as he’s lowering his limbs, though the tension in his muscles are still evident. “So you’re not mad…?” He drawls warily.

“Oh, I am.” She says with a curt nod.

“Yeah, I figured.” Rhys responds, sheepishly scratching at the nape of his neck before trailing down to not-so-subtly tug at the collar of his shirt.

There’s a tense silence that lapses over them, the only sound coming from the utensils they’re using against fine china, and the occasional exaggerated sip of wine from either one of them. Fiona is tempted to continue the awkward silence, just to get a reaction out of him, but she can’t help her curiosity, as well as the fact that some form of anger is still coursing through her blood. So, she breaks the soundlessness first. “Okay, first, who exactly did you tell?”

Mismatched eyes regard her warily once again. “Some of my employees, though that got around pretty fast-“ He begins.

“Really? I would’ve  _ never _ guessed.” She deadpans with a tilt of her head, before she scrapes a bit of the frosting from the cake onto her fork and licks it tentatively.

She assumes the movement goes unnoticed by the company man, because his eyes flicker from the fork, to her lips, and back to her. For one reason or another, it irks her even more. She just wants to taste the frosting! Damn! “I don’t appreciate the sarcasm, Fi.” He replies, as though it never happened.

“Just continue before you lose your train of thought,” she says with a twitch of her brow and an impatient wave of her hand.

Rhys takes a deep inhale of oxygen before he stares longingly at the glass of wine. A part of her wants to ask, but then rational thought comes trickling in and suddenly she doesn’t care. He pries his gaze off of the glass with a wince before playing with the crumbs of his crumpets on the plate and irritatedly threads his cybernetic fingers through slick strands with another suffering groan. “Some higher ups. Nothing too serious! But it is circulating that I’m married to a Vault Hunter… named Fiona… and there aren’t any other Vault Hunters with your name…” He explains slowly, grimacing.

Offering Rhys a deadpan blank stare, she tilts her head to the side. She has to internally shake her head at that. How did he even manage to get all this way into Atlas’ CEO position? There really isn’t a thing in the universe that he’s good at. And the fact that she woke up early that morning in that god forsaken shack with his arm holding her tight against his chest should’ve been a sign in of itself for her to know he doesn’t keep his promises despite his history with the Gortys project. But then she considers the situation, she should've shot him in the dick once she discovered that small detail, but for reasons beyond her, she simply settled back into the lumpy mattress. Like an idiot that she is.

“You do realize that being married was supposed to be for that one mission we did together, right? Nothing more?” She asks blandly, voice monotone though there’s still enough sharpness to indicate that she isn’t letting go of the idea of strangling him.

Nervously, Rhys scratches the back of his neck as he subtly tries to add some distance between them, though she’s quick and the tip of her heel catches one of the wheels of his chair and she tugs him back into place. “Of course!... It just slipped my mind.” He mentions anxiously.

“Okay, how?” Fiona deadpans, face indecipherable.

“I  _ possibly… may _ have mentioned that I know one of the most awesome Vault Hunters in the Crimson Raiders-“ He begins sheepishly, fingers fidgeting with one another.

“And naturally, they don’t believe you.” She supplies hastily, because yes, that is something she wouldn’t believe either. 

“...Yeah.” He drawls, eyeing her expectantly with that dopey look on his face.

Fiona leans back in her chair and regards him with mild disappointment. She can always take the bottle of wine on his desk and walk out like this never happened. But then again, where’s the fun in that. So she considers it with a grain of salt, and clicks her tongue. “I’ll help you, but a fee is definitely required.” She smiles wickedly.

Sighing, Rhys shrinks in his chair. “That I figured.” He mumbles, before taking his fork and shoving a large piece of the cake into his mouth. “How much?” He asks reluctantly through the morsels of food, a wince growing on his features.

Fiona taps at her chin with a slim finger, lips pursed as she considers his words. Just to see him weep and choke on the piece of cake he’s slowly chewing on, the idea of muttering seventy-five percent is oh so tempting. “Fifty percent.”

“F-Fi!” He manages through a series of coughs. No matter her answer, it seems as though he’s shocked that she even responded instead of walking out of his office with little to no shits to give for his predicament.

Fiona shrugs at his incoherent sputterings nonetheless. “Hey, if I’m supposed to be married to a CEO, then I better be getting equal pay. That’s what marriage is about, right,  _ honey _ ? Sharing?” She says triumphantly, before sipping at her wine with half lidded eyes.

In all honesty, Rhys looks like he’s about to combust. But once he swallows the sweet morsels with a gulp and clears his throat, he irritatedly ruffles his hair enough so that has her repeatedly flickering her gaze from his stupid face to that odd loop in his hair. “Fine.” He mumbles childishly before nearly stabbing at his cake. Her brows raise at his audacity, however she can’t stop the amused smile from quirking the corner of her lips up. 

Silence lapses over them once again as they finish their food, but it’s only when he leans back into his chair with a creak that she notes something… off about this whole thing. It’s as if she can feel eyes on her. A gut feeling, but Felix had always told her to trust those instincts, and they’ve never been wrong before. Abruptly, Rhys’ mismatched eyes widen as he gazes over her shoulder, and flushes. Curiosity bests her and she nearly turns around to look at what the hell he’s blushing about, but he quickly says, “Kiss me.”

That immediately has Fiona facing him with an evident grimace. No, no, no. It’s just her imagination playing tricks on her. She must’ve heard him wrong because there’s no way in hell Rhys wants her to kiss him after that shit show in Reverend Dill Doe’s palace. So she opts to make a joke about it. “What? Rhys, I need a few glasses of whiskey first.” She responds with a nervous chuckle of her own, desperately hoping that she’s right and it’s all just her imagination.

“Keep your voice down. My employees. They’re snooping on us.” Rhys explains with a wave of his cybernetic hand.

Fiona leans back into her chair and snorts. “Well, I mean, are you surprised? Half of your office is lined with glass.” She says, gesturing towards the windows surrounding most of his walls. Although that’s not including the parts that are draped in cloth, even though she has a strong inkling that those hidden parts are lined with glass as well. And considering Rhys, he’s from that Hyperion base he used to love so much. Surely, even now he’s still a little inspired by Handsome Jack - despite how unnerving that line of thought actually is.

The man across her pouts and narrows his eyes, but he quickly recovers as though he has an idea. A small tinge in the pit of her stomach twists from the inevitable disgust she’ll feel. “Sixty percent.” He perks up in desperation.

“What?” Fiona asks in blatant confusion.

Impatiently, Rhys bounces his legs underneath the table. Enough so that his leg grazes her own. Half tempted was she to pull away from his as though she’s burned, but she remembers his employees are watching and she refrains. “I’ll raise the fifty to sixty percent. Just pretend I said something flattering. Or flirt or whatever!” He instructs through gritted teeth.

There’s some form of compassion for him in the deep depths of her heart, because she shockingly does as she’s told. “Okay, okay, jeez. Just make yourself convincing enough.” Fiona grumbles as she leans on his desk with an elbow propped upon the glossy surface. Because, out of the two of them, she knows stealth and feigning something when it’s necessary. Rhys on the other hand, well, she can see the poor sap already trembling, probably because he’s thinking about their  _ other _ kiss.

God, she hates knowing that they kissed before.

But her face is as placid as she can muster as she draws closer, playfully fiddling with his red tie while the pointed tip of her heel gently runs up the length of his leg, before firmly gripping the silk and tugging him over their empty plates. Rhys is anything but relaxed, but she’s grateful for the fact that his eyes are closed convincingly as their lips are pressed together chastely. However, the longer they’re positioned the way they are, the more she knows his employees will question if anything really is going on between them. She doesn’t even know why she’s thinking of this situation in this way, but she does regardless.

Rhys must’ve had the same idea, because he takes it upon himself to deepen the kiss. Tentatively, slowly, his tongue parts her firm lips and strokes her own as though he’s waiting for her to hit him - which she’s considering, but the thought rapidly dissipates.

It’s hardly something she’ll go rave about to Sasha, but a part of her realizes that she doesn’t completely hate the feeling of kissing Rhys. And immediately, that stupid idea is squashed into the dark crevices of her mind, because there’s no way in hell she’s allowing herself to like this.

At least not when she’s sober.

  
  



	3. A Step and A Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of any kind is welcome and appreciated! Enjoy!

It’s only been precisely a month since the whole fiasco at Atlas headquarters, and since then, ignoring that feeling - the tiniest of tiniest sparks - she actually forgot about it. More so she refused to acknowledge it after accidentally mentioning the notion to Sasha. That ended in disaster, but of course, not without the lewd gestures and insinuations that she understood even under the influence. What can she say, as much as she can hold her liquor well, she’s bound to let something spill after dozens of August’s experimental concoctions.  _ Disgusting _ concoctions, she might add.

However, even if she said something, her sister was the last of her worries. Bigger things were ahead of her and letting that detail of not  _ completely _ hating Rhys’ mouth was one of the last things she’ll allow her mind to dwell on for the better part of her days. She released that pent up ire in killing psychos and goliaths in the field and eventually forgot about it all over again, though a concerned eye from Maya wasn’t lost on her.

Time flew by and she was finally getting the hang of things with all the Vault Hunting stuff - not getting killed. There’s an unspoken routine of sorts. Get a mission, go through with said mission without dying, collect the fortune, and turn in the mission. She’s usually paired off with Maya or Brick and sometimes Tina, and she looks at them in awe. There’s a camaraderie she hasn’t felt since finding the Vault of the Traveler, and it’s thrilling, to say the least. Yet when she’s alone, there was something completely indescribable about doing a mission on her own. Like the  _ one _ time she actually did something for Claptrap. It was stupid and still is stupid because she had to collect some rocks for the robot, all while dodging psychos who apparently needed said rocks, for some fucking reason.

Regardless of the level of stupidity, it was fun. She was finally immersed in the adrenaline and utterly alone. It’s a sad way of living, the loneliness, honestly, but she’ll be damned, it would be one hell of a way to go despite the reason behind any mission she was given.

There were times of leisure, though not many when there were threats about a cult that’s forming. Fiona doubted it’d get anywhere, mainly because she’s seen so many people on Pandora think they’ll be the baddest of the bad - like Vaughn, for instance. But even she knew it’d take a lot more than word getting around an area on Pandora.

She spent her time lounging on the ship if she couldn’t help it. However, she tried as much as she could to visit Sasha and August at the Purple Skag. It was always entertaining to hear their stories of conning and whatnot all while getting piss drunk. She couldn’t stop herself at times as well, pickpocketing a few drunkards in and around the bar.

But now? Well, she’s on Sanctuary helping the dumbass out… again. Okay, he didn’t really need her help, but seeing that he’s changing into a suit he purchased himself, well, she has to make sure he doesn’t look too much of a dumbass. It’s weird to have him on the ship - in her room, of all places - rather than stuck in that glossy office of his, but even she has to admit, it’s a nice change of pace. Especially when it’s Athena and Janey’s wedding in just a few short hours.

Fiona had a dress that’d been hanging in her wardrobe for the better part of three years - something she stole while raiding an abandoned manor overrun with bandits, of course - and she never found the opportunity to actually wear it until the two women announced their wedding. It’s a deep red gown, tight around her bust and cinched at her waist while thin straps rest over her shoulders and cross complicatedly over her exposed back. The skirt of the crimson dress is loose, grazing her ankles as she wears the pointed heels she purchased from helping Rhys out last time.

And the dipshit, well, he’s changing behind the screen at the corner of her room. Odd as it may seem, and as she waits for him on the sofa in the middle of the room, she can’t stop the irritation from coursing through her veins from nothing in particular. What’s worse is the fact that she can hear him humming happily behind the divider. Before she knows it, he’s singing off key to a song that’s probably popular on Promethea. It’s terrible enough that his voice causes her to squeeze her eyes shut, tilt her head back against the back of the sofa, and nearly let out a groan.

But despite herself, it takes all her willpower to refrain.

Rhys emerges from behind the screen and suddenly, she’s unimpressed as he has that dopey smile on his features with arms outstretched. Like that’s going to hide the atrocious suit. She had an inkling she was right about him looking like a dumbass, and she’s proven right as a slight wince pulls her face taut.

The colors are a strange pairing, appearing dated or maybe muted almost. It’s a coral suit with gaudy turquoise stripes on one arm and one pant leg. Truthfully, he looks like a clown, especially with that tie that looks as though he didn’t know what he’s doing. It’s haphazardly tied and she thinks he’s gotten used to the idea of clip-on ties that he doesn’t know how to actually knot one. 

Warily, Fiona glances into his evidently proud eyes. “You’re seriously wearing that? You’re not afraid of Athena punching you for looking like a dipshit?” She asks.

That pride is wiped away at her words and he makes some undignified sound at the back of his throat. “I-It’s not all that bad! See? I actually have a real tie on.” He defends with his cybernetic hand grasping the silk that carelessly wraps around his neck.

But Fiona isn’t buying it. There’s no way she’s going with him, let alone get seen with him at the wedding when he’s wearing that. And that doesn’t even include all the jokes Sasha will definitely make. Or even Ellie for that matter, just trying to get out of Sanctuary. God, she didn’t even want to think about that, so she quickly abandons it and focuses on fidgeting with her dress.

Releasing a hum in thought, and making a face of clear doubt, she shakes her head as she looks at his suit. “I don’t know, Rhys. That’s just god awful.” 

Bemused, Rhys glances down at the suit once more before reluctantly asking, “...The tie?”

“No, the whole thing.” Fiona answers. She can’t place her finger on it, but other than the obvious clash of colors, there’s something  _ off _ about the whole thing. She pointedly avoids his glowering and grumblings underneath his breath when she taps at her chin and crosses one leg over the other in thought. What the hell is wrong with this? But then she realizes what’s amiss. The jacket is small, tight, as though he’s trying to emphasize what little muscle is there in the first place. “Maybe it’s just the jacket? It looks a little too…  _ small _ on you. Did you get this at the kid’s section?” 

“No! A-and it’s not  _ small _ , it’s fitting!” Rhys pouts with a huff.

“Mm, fitting for a child maybe,” she says inaudibly, but apparently it’s loud enough for him to hear because his eyes narrow a fraction more than they already are. “How about you show me the other suits? You said you brought a few of them with you, right? Where?” Fiona asks in an attempt to divert his attention.

It’s the least she can do if he’ll be with her for the majority of the day. And seeing that Janey and Athena will have to look at him, she has to do something to get the stress off of their backs, even if it’s just for the day. However, the thought of Athena kicking his ass out of the Purple Skag tempts her oh-so delightfully. It even causes her to unconsciously smile at the mere thought.

“They’re over here,” he responds, striding awkwardly in the stiff fabric to the back of the screen before popping his head out from the wooden divider with a smirk. “I have to warn you though, Fi. They’re not  _ nearly _ as amazing as this one right here.”

Unamused, Fiona watches him emerge from behind the screen once more with two suits dangling limply on a respective hanger in tow. He drapes them beside her and the more he unravels the two suits, the more her brows raise, mystified. “How is that better than any of these?” She questions, pointing from the atrocious suit he adorns to the two draping over her sofa. 

“This one has strips, Fi! Obviously those don’t. So that automatically makes this one better. Duh!” He reasons, as though the stripes sealed whatever deal he had in his mind. 

Fiona shakes her head and considers the suits beside her, running her fingertips along undeniably expensive fabric. “Then why the hell did you bring these if you refuse to wear them.” She asks.

All that earns her is a half hearted and sheepish shrug from the man behind the sofa. “...Because…” He says.

A part of her wants to chuck one of the suits at him and hope that he actually gets it on without choking himself with the tie, but all she does is release a long suffering sigh. Why is he always her responsibility? Why couldn’t August deal with him for once? But then she realizes it’s because the man held no tolerance for Rhys the way she does - which isn’t considering much, but that’s besides the point. 

Heaving in a large gulp of oxygen, Fiona stands from her spot and rounds the sofa to meet him, though her eyes still stray on one of the suits. It’s casual, deep in red that borders on a dark purple jacket while the button up and trousers are a stark raven. And of course, there’s the quirky socks that he loves so dearly: cute images of jabbers surrounded in pink. And what reduces some tension in her is the fact that it’s casual enough that there isn’t a tie that he’ll have to worry about.

How perfect! Wait a minute, why is she so interested in dressing him all of a sudden? Her thoughts stray for a moment - a moment too long, honestly - and she chalks it up to not wanting Athena or Janey having to kick him out of their own wedding. Not anything else, of course! Nope!

“Okay, well if you’re going with me then you’ll just have to suck it up and wear this one.” She says sternly, almost angrily, while shoving the suit into his hands, the unmistakable frown and glare pointed her way not lost on her. Half heartedly, Rhys grips the bunched material and offers her a blank expression, devoid of his usual pout… actually, no, it’s still there. Jutting her hip out as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, Fiona glances at him with half lidded eyes. “C’mon, what happened to being married?” She retaliates slyly.

It’s enough to get the usual sputtering from him because he’s suddenly blushing and holding the suit in a near white-knuckled grip. “I-I thought we agreed on never mentioning that again?” He questions, baritone lowering to a whisper, as though anyone on Sanctuary can hear them.

Fiona folds her arms underneath her bust with a shrug, ignoring the fact that they’re arguing about this in her room… alone… No, no, no. She needs to focus. “Well, we did, until you fucked that up. You did it to me that one time - wait, no, two times or maybe more now that I think about it. The deal is about sharing, so I think I’m able to say that if it gets you to not look like a dumbass for one night.” She replies pointedly, causing him to narrow his mismatched eyes. “... _ And _ I’ll save you from getting kicked out of the reception by Athena… maybe.” Fiona adds in an afterthought.

Honestly, she isn’t expecting anything from him. He apparently relishes the idea of looking like an idiot - it’s never stopped him before, in any case. But he acquiesces anyway. And despite herself, her features show the tiniest bit of surprise when he scratches at his cheek in mild irritation and sighs in defeat.

“That’s reassuring.” He mumbles, before frustratedly tugging at the silk tie around his neck that easily loosens, and making his way back behind the wooden screen. 

* * *

Fiona couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at her lips in genuine content. The wedding ceremony was as endearing as ever, a small gathering of sorts. She’s never really been to weddings before, but she knew what they were for and how they’re done. The reason? She never knew anyone long enough to actually attend one, let alone give a reason to have a wedding when the couple would probably blow up in a matter of minutes.

But this time, it was different. It’s Athena and Janey, and she knew they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.

And despite how difficult it was to admit it to herself, they were like a family. Well, second family. Because the one with only her, Sasha, and Felix went to shambles when the old man never came back, but that's besides the point. 

Courtesy of August, the Purple Skag was rented out for the ceremony and reception. Warm, twinkling lights illuminated the bar, a threadbare rug guided the path, and the tattered seats were shifted around to give way to the couple at the front. In her opinion, it could’ve used a bit more decorations, but even she knew that trying to give a little flair to the bar was fruitless when it still stank of death at times.

Regardless, it was a pathetic type of cute that even she couldn’t deny was endearing. Vaughn took up the role as the officiant as he stood between the couple with an idiotic monocle. Loader Bot as the ring bearer, though he had the pillow and rings taped onto his front in befuddlement. Gortys as the flower girl, tossing the petals with extra flourish and an adorable smile. It left her and Rhys with Sasha and August sitting on shortened bar stools as they watched the ceremony with undeniable fondness.

The sight of everyone back together - and Athena and Janey pressing a tender kiss to one another’s lips - had her heart welling up in an emotion she rarely ever indulged in. Or rather, she tried desperately to suppress. It always lead to her frustration, the unmistakable ire that continuously built until she exploded, and that was one of the last things she needed at the moment.

Rhys on the other hand, well, the poor sap was balling beside her during the ceremony and long after it ended. Repeatedly, he swiped at his eyes like the dope that he was until August and Vaughn moved the seats to their respective spots and the alcohol was finally poured into dingy glasses and Athena smacked Rhys’ side and said to ‘get ahold of himself’. He quickly perked up when the music began pumping throughout the small establishment and even Fiona had to admit - from her spot in the corner of the bar - it was entertaining to see everyone let loose for once.

It was when Athena and Janey decided to go through with an old tradition, everyone huddled around the couple. Much to the Athena’s visible chagrin, she sat in the chair, leaning back and looking as awkward as ever with her white gown bunched up and a fresh blush blooming on her cheeks. 

“Go get her, Janey!” Her sister hollers a little too happily, just as the blonde bends down, perching upon one knee.

Warily, Fiona regards her sister as Sasha’s cradling yet another shot of… whatever that dark blue liquid is. Is that her fifth? Or her sixth? She isn’t quite sure, nor does she care to know, mainly because they Pandorans know how to handle their liquor, but it still concerns her how much her and August have been drinking since the end of the ceremony. “Sash, I think you’ve had enough-” She begins.

But Sasha easily evades Fiona’s prying hands, childishly batting at her older sister’s attempt at grasping the drink from her own hands. “No, no, no, Fi. This isn’t  _ nearly _ enough for the night. I mean, c’mon, don’t you like to party, sis?” Sasha says with a quirk to her brow and glossy gaze, before tugging August behind her - just as some of the alcohol spills from his glass - and swaying to some unknown beat in her mind, completely divergent of the music actually playing in the background.

Fiona can only stand there frozen, utterly silent as she watches them - disgustingly - move together in a lewd dance. “I never said that, but I do think you doing  _ that  _ to August makes me want to get some of that liquor, too.” She says, eyes wide and already making a move towards the bar across the room.

However, Sasha pulls her older sister back into place with a disconcerting tug at the skirt of her dress. “W-wait! Just wait until after the garter toss.” Her little sister says, her dazed features innocently sweetening up.

There’s a moment of hesitation in her nerves. For one, she doesn’t want to see her little sister drunkenly grind against her lover, all while attempting to hold some form of decency for the newly wed couple - whom of which one is already ducking into the other’s skirt. And two, she has to tend to a fiercely blushing Rhys who seems to have never gotten past first base. Well, she assumes so if his restlessness is anything to go by.

Fiona makes a sound at the back of her throat and ultimately shrugs. “Mn yeah, alright.”

So she stands and watches, a smile unconsciously tugging at her painted lips while avoiding Sasha at her left. It’s surprisingly easily with all the sounds coming from Vaughn and Rhys to her right, and Gortys trying to cover her eyes from Janey crawling up Athena’s leg to capture the garter between her teeth.

Abruptly, the blonde stands triumphantly with the frilly piece of fabric and Athena avoids everyone's eyes like the plague. Even if her mentor-turned-colleague sits across the room, Fiona could practically feel the heat emanating off of her cheeks. Her thoughts are broken when she sees the white fabric being chucked directly at her, and purely out of instinct, Fiona catches the garter.

She doesn’t even realize she has the lacy fabric bunched in her grasp until Sasha nudges her arm and offers a suggestive look towards her older sister.

Why did she have this? Why did she catch this? Fiona doesn’t know, but she goes with what’s most logical in her brain - which isn’t much because she’s too caught up in Vaughn’s suggestive poking and prodding at Rhys to her side who clearly noticed her catch the garter. Ignoring the two idiots to her right, Fiona turns to the other idiot at her left and nearly pries the man’s hand open just to place the garter in his grasp. “It’s cute, but I think this is for you, August.” 

Much to her dismay, the blonde doesn’t take the bait.

Instead, he snorts and backs away a few inches and avoids Fiona’s attempt at sneaking the fabric onto his person, whether it may be pockets or even shoved down his pants. “No way, you go take that frilly thing to Hyperion there.” He says, pointedly yet vaguely gesturing towards Rhys that is still talking to Vaughn, though even she can see the pink dusting on his cheeks from the sidelong glance she gives him.

However, all Fiona can do is stop short, face eerily expressionless except for the narrowing of her viridian eyes.

“Shh! August!” Sasha lightheartedly smacks at her lover’s stomach before the two erupt in a series of cackles as though they were sharing some inside joke. The way they’re avoiding her irks her even more, causing her brow to twitch in annoyance. And when she crosses her arms underneath her bust and shifts her weight from one foot to the other, glowering at the couple, she can’t stop the feeling of indignation from taking over her thoughts. It isn’t the fact that they joked about it, she didn’t expect anything less from her little sister. But it’s  _ him _ that most of her annoyance is directed at.

“What the hell are you talking about?” She presses, nodding towards August. She swears to god she’ll pummel him to the ground if Rhys manages to hear their conversation, let alone the so-called joke that totally isn’t a joke, because she  _ doesn’t _ like the dumbass and she  _ wouldn’t  _ allow that to happen. And besides, it was only a kiss, a  _ staged _ kiss that was supposed to keep his employees off his back. Nothing more.

At her tone, the blonde meets her eyes and immediately freezes. “Nothin’, just uh,” he stammers and looks anywhere but Fiona. “Just forget I even said anything.” He says, before taking another healthy swig of his drink.

Unfortunately, not even a few seconds later, Rhys is tapping at her bare shoulder with cold metal. The small contact is enough to cause her to flinch the slightest bit, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his brow is quirked up and his hand is covering his mouth as though he’s telling her some sort of secret. The thing is, though, he doesn’t open his big mouth until she shakes her head that clearly says,  _ what? _

“Genuinely interested: why do weddings always have to include the garter bit?” He asks, eyeing the lacy fabric still somehow in her grasp. Fiona notices, too, but she not-so-discreetly shoves the garter down August’s back as he sets his drink down upon a nearby table and blatantly ignores the sputtering behind her.

Rhys’ mismatched eyes narrow and flicker between the blonde and her, but evidently decides not to pursue the topic. Good, he knows how to read between the lines, even though it’s questionable at times. And she doesn’t want to make anything up at the moment despite how easy it is when the dumbass is incredibly gullible. “Have you not heard of tradition, Rhys?” She asks, voice still holding some venom from her irritation.

“N-no, I have, but I never understood that part. I mean the bouquet seems a little self explanatory. But…” He drawls, blindly following her as she moves towards the table they occupied earlier, before taking a seat beside her.

“It’s a way to excite the crowd. I mean, it’s traditionally for men to throw at other men, but I don’t see any of those here except August and Vaughn.” She responds smugly, a smirk lining her crimson lips.

At the underhanded insult, Rhys regards her with arms crossed over his broad chest and narrowed eyes. “Oh, you’re so hilarious.” He utters in clear sarcasm.

But that doesn’t faze her. Instead, she opts to grasp a bottle of Pandoran liquor at the center of the table and pop open the lid, before pouring the same dark blue liquid Sasha cradled into a stacked glass cup. “I always thought that myself. I’m glad we can agree with each other on something.” She says, taking a swig of the liquid and glancing at him with half lidded eyes, relishing the burn as the alcohol slides down her throat. Her response must have rubbed him the wrong way - as it usually does, in any case - because he’s simultaneously pouting and glaring at her, and yet she simply offers a smile to him. “Why do you ask? Did weddings on Helios not include that?” 

“N-no, it’s included, I’ve just never really been to weddings. I mean, the most I’ve been to are parties, but that’s mostly from college and they aren’t nearly as entertaining and… heartfelt as these ones.” He explains, mirroring her movements by relaxing a fraction and leaning back in his seat.

“Right, I forgot you had a life before Hyperion. Well, that’s to say you had one there, too.” She continues, voice muffled as she says it into her cup, before taking another healthy gulp of the disgusting brew. It burns strangely down her throat - more than it usually does - but she merely shrugs it off

Rhys scoffs and looks off at their friends as they all begin dancing. “I had one, it just wasn’t as exciting as yours has been with all this thieving and nearly dying from this death trap of a planet.” He grumbles. 

“Hey now, you act like I can’t do exactly that to you right now.” She says mischievously, pointedly eyeing that gaudy watch he managed to sneak past her wary eyes after leaving Sanctuary. He notices where her eyes are directed and immediately pulls his hand away from her reach and covers it with cold, hard metal as he releases a scoff of incredulity. That makes her chuckle, but instead of continuing the conversation, they lapse into a somewhat comfortable silence. Well, if the pounding music and cacophony of everyone talking is considered silence.

She’s glad they’re joking, because it distracts her from her inner turmoil that occasionally trickles in around this time of night. It’s also a reason why she hoards all that liquor in her room on Sanctuary because she can’t handle thinking of the man next to her the way that girl Stacey did.

Regardless, she casually takes swigs of her… whiskey?... no, definitely vodka, as he eventually - reluctantly - grasps a glass cup and the bottle that she closed with a tight grip, and struggles to open the damn thing. She honestly didn’t plan on indulging him, but she did anyways, and for reasons beyond her, once the bottle pops open, she crosses her leg over the other, and in the process, accidentally grazes his leg. She doesn’t know why that sends a shiver down her spine, especially when it doesn’t affect him the way that it clearly does with her, so she immediately shakes it off. It’s probably just the alcohol that’s getting to her… Even though she’s not even halfway through with her first glass.

“What about Promethea?” She asks finally, when the fact that they are the only ones sitting and not dancing registers in her mind.

“What  _ about  _ Promethea?” He questions, meeting her eyes and cradling the cup that he has yet to take a drink out of.

Fiona shrugs nonchalantly while breaking her eyes from his and focusing on the endearing image of Athena and Janey dancing together, genuine grins replacing the tender smiles minutes before. “Well, I assume there’s different tradition there from the few days I got to spend on your planet. And it’s mostly different from Pandora, so...” She drawls.

Rhys finally decides to take a sip from the glass, instantly grimacing with a resolute shake of his head, and placing it back on the table. “It’s really not that different, tradition wise. I gotta say, though, there is a hell of a lot less disgusting alcohol there compared to that.”

Fiona can only watch him in mild intrigue when he makes a sound of dry retching at the back of his throat. It must take talent to be such a wimp of his calibre. Honestly, she assumes he’s just being a baby and is overreacting, like he does on many occasions. He’s probably acquired that high-quality taste for expensive alcohol like that wine she tried in his office, but she can actually see the telltale signs of his aversion. Like the goosebumps and the obvious shiver. Regardless, she snorts at the dumbass. “Aww, Rhys, don’t act like you don’t like Pandoran liquor.” She coos with a smirk.

He offers her a look and scoffs, “I don’t.”

Another snort escapes her, but she tries to mask it by bringing the lip of the glass to her mouth once again. “Mn, keep telling yourself that.” She responds with a playful nudge to his metal arm.

For once, he doesn’t respond with anything childish. Instead, he simply regards her with something indecipherable in his eyes. She doesn’t want to think about, especially when they’re alone in the corner of the bar, so she taps her fingernails against the cold bottle to the beat of the music. If anything, it’ll give her something to do rather than indulge in those tempting thoughts, but she doesn’t want to get angry again, lest she accidentally punches Rhys and storms off down the alley and leaves everyone for the night. 

Fortunately - or unfortunately, she isn’t sure - his baritone breaks her from her reverie. “You know, I’ve only been on Promethea for a little less than a year, and I barely get to see all the culture there unlike here on Pandora just because of Atlas… but I wouldn’t mind taking some time off if you came to visit occasionally.” He says in complete, raw honesty. It’s something she isn’t expecting, and evidently he thinks of the same thing, because suddenly he’s tense, gesturing wildly, and backtracking. “W-well, n-not  _ just _ you, I mean, I would to  _ August _ -” He begins stuttering.

“That’s sweet, Rhys, but there’s nothing for me there.” She intervenes. If not just to cut him off, then to have some mercy for the poor sap before he pops a blood vessel trying to recover from his mistake. However, Fiona realizes that as stupid as it is because it’s Rhys, the offer really is sweet… But he doesn’t have to know about that. Or anyone for that matter.

“Now that is a lie,” he says, pointing a cybernetic finger towards her. Fiona furrows her brows and keeps quiet. “Come on, I can find you better work there, than here… Free access to new prototypes on Atlas guns, you could work alongside  _ Zero _ who just started working with me… earning  _ more _ of a fortune there than scavenging rakks and skags… and Reverend Dill Doe’s…” He tempts, leaning forward to emphasize his point. His lips are curled in a strange grin and his brows are wiggling suggestively, and it’s enough for her to recoil and cross her legs the other way, but she doesn’t. Instead, she glances at him warily and takes a swig of her vodka once more.

“Eh, from the little that I did get to see, there’s nothing but construction and corporate dickheads there - you included. And unless you’re going to make me travel to other planets for work, I need to stay here with Sasha until we figure something out instead of waiting around with Zero for another corporate asshole to come barging in on you.” Fiona responds. And it’s true, because for one reason or another, she has an inkling the only time he’ll need help is if another dipshit corporation tries to dictate the universe, or his facility. That’s how it usually is, anyhow. It happened with Handsome Jack and Pandora, she didn’t doubt that there’ll be another one of those wannabe genocidal maniacs running around the universe right now, or in the near future. 

Rhys returns to his seat, and considers her words for a moment, before nodding in agreement. “Yeah, t-that’s probably true, but you’re not mentioning the fact that Pandora is like the hub for corporate assholes’ real estate. All those Vaults  _ and _ the dumbasses who’ll blindly follow all these companies. It’s not that much different except for terrain, technology, and the planet.” He points out.

As much as it pains her, Fiona has to admit he does have a point. Which almost never happens, but hey even the dumb ones can have some semblance of a brain cell. However, she considers his offer. It is tempting, the type of work. All that money. Besides the fortune Felix left for her and Sasha, Vault Hunting alone is enough of a job that can get her that type of money. That is, if she doesn’t die. But with Rhys? Just the small fortune he deposited into her bank nearly a month ago was enough to get her to choke on some spit. But Sasha. She can’t just leave her, even though she knows her sister can handle herself. 

She has to give it more thought, honestly. And with a deep sigh, Fiona stops her fingers from tapping against the glass. “I’ll  _ consider _ -” She began.

But that familiar joyous voice cuts through their conversation happily. “Rhys! Wanna dance? I don’t think I’ve ever danced before!” Gortys asks with a smile, rolling over to his left.

Rhys gives Fiona a hesitant glance, as though asking permission to leave the table and go to the center of the makeshift dance floor to help out their little robot. With a shrug that clearly says,  _ go ahead,  _ or more like,  _ why are you asking me? _ Rhys turns to Gortys and bends down the slightest bit. “Well, sure, Gortys. I thought you’d never ask.” He says, standing from his seat and taking her robot hand.

It physically hurts how cute of an image those two make, but she doesn’t want to admit anything. However, when the pair stops at the center of the dance floor - Rhys showing a dance move and Gortys mimicking it to the best of her abilities - Fiona can’t stop the smile from curving her lips up.

There is something completely innocent and cute about the idea of Rhys - of all people - teaching Gortys how to dance that warms her heart. 

This goes on for the majority of the song, until both of them are flailing about, jumping around, and Gortys ultimately stops from the sheer embarrassment of noticing Rhys wiggling his arms like the idiot he is. The dumbass doesn’t even acknowledge anyone else - who of which are watching him warily and distancing themselves from the man - with that dopey smile plastered on his face. Gortys on the other hand, she still has that smile on her face, but she’s sheepishly scratching at her side all while looking up at Rhys.

It’s when Rhys abruptly stops from that embarrassing thrashing, he glances at Gortys, that smile faltering until even she can sense something is wrong. They’re talking, but the music is too loud for her to hear, and she can’t read their lips, because Sasha keeps accidentally obstructing her view.

However, Fiona realizes she’s watching them a little too intently, and shakes her head, resolutely taking a healthy swig of the dark blue liquor. But then she’s leaning back in her chair, cradling the glass bottle and Rhys is dragging his feet back to the table with a genuinely sad pout forming. Poor thing, she wonders what happened, but the sight of Gortys rolling over to Loader Bot gets her smile to widen.

Rhys flops into his chair beside her, slumping, but that only causes Fiona to let out a snort. “I gotta say, Rhys, you really can’t dance.” She chuckles underneath her breath.

Affronted, the poor sap exaggeratedly swings his head. “Fi, it’s not about the dance, it’s about the fun you have  _ while  _ dancing.” He attempts to defend.

A scarred brow raises before she nods slowly and considers his words. But even she can’t deny that that’s utter bullshit. Well, only because it’s Rhys saying it. If it were Gortys or her sister, she would wholeheartedly agree with them, because, yes, it is true. “Well, I don’t know if anyone would have fun even if you begged them to dance with you.” She says easily, nudging his cybernetic arm.

Mismatched eyes narrow, and almost immediately, he’s sitting up straight and flicking his metal fingers on her forearm. Something tingly sparks underneath her skin from the contact, but she pulls away faster than she even acknowledges. “You’re just mad that I can do this,” he starts to wiggle his arms, until he’s moving in a way like a spore would.

Merely watching in relative silence, because the song abruptly stops and awkwardly changes to the next, Fiona can only cringe at the secondhand embarrassment she can feel rolling off of him. God, is that seriously how he danced? If so, things are even worse for her. Why him? However, she desperately shoves that train of thought to the deep depths of her mind and focuses on the fact that the dumbass is looking at her expectantly, as though he were challenging her. But there is no way in hell she’s indulging him with a dance-off or whatever it is he wants out of her. 

“Yeah, because I’m totally jealous of…  _ that _ .” She responds, but he continues all over again. “C’mon, don’t embarrass yourself like this anymore. It’s actually painful to see you doing whatever that is.”

Whatever it is in his mind, or even in her tone, it pushes Rhys to stand from his seat and begin another embarrassing dance to her left. And some irrational part of her brain unconsciously pulls her face into a look she has seen from the idiot many times before: a pout, though her lips are parted ever so slightly, and viridian narrow to mere slits. “Dancing, Fiona. It’s called dancing. And hey, at least I know how to have fun unlike Miss Uptight here.”

That gets her to shift her legs over one another and actually face him. “Really? I’m uptight now? You wanna try that again?” She asks sternly, however the way her mouth misses the lip of her glass tells him otherwise, until she corrects her mistake.

But even then, he abruptly stops from her words and immediately fiddles with his fingers sheepishly. “I-no…” And then suddenly a dusting of pink reaches his cheeks, and he’s looking off to the crowd once again. “You gonna get in there? Sash, looks like she’s about to pummel the crowd… or lack thereof, that is.”

She’s looking at the few of them and considers it for a moment. What Rhys said, Sasha does look like she’s about to pounce everyone for that bundle of flowers. Then there’s Vaughn, he’s rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and showing his weirdly muscular forearms off, while August cheers her sister on. Gortys and Loader Bot, well, one is evidently excited and bounces in her… steps..? While the other is standing there awkwardly off to the side.

Ultimately, Fiona shrugs, before relaxing into her seat all over again. “Eh, catching a bunch of flowers isn’t really my thing. I mean-“ She begins.

“Right… well, have fun with your garter,  _ I’ll _ be sniffing a bouquet.” Rhys intervenes, already dismissing her with a wave of his cybernetic hand, moving to stand beside Vaughn, and chuckling to himself.

For some reason, that irks her. She doesn’t know why, but it’s that stupid chuckle. And the fact that he’s talking to Vaughn - someone who is very clearly drunk out of his wits already - all while acting like the competitive ass that he is. It’s endearing, but Fiona quickly cuts those obscene thoughts out of her mind with a shake of her head and watches from her spot in the corner of the room. Rhys and endearing doesn’t belong in the same sentence. Nope. Never.

The bouquet is tossed into the air, Sasha’s in her stance to jump, while Rhys mirrors her position. But unfortunately, the company man gets it before her sister does. And in the process, accidentally smacking a drunk Vaughn with his cybernetic hand.

Truthfully, Fiona sees this all in slow motion. Whether it’s because she not-so-secretly wanted her sister to nab the flowers for August or not, or maybe it’s the fact that she should’ve known Rhys would fuck up even the simplest of things, she unintentionally holds her breath. That is, until she sees Sasha and Rhys tending to a knocked out Vaughn. The muscular man is flat on his back on the wooden planks, and it’s enough to get a snort of clear amusement to escape her.

She knows she should get in there and help them, but she makes no move to do so. Instead, she inhales and relaxes into her chair, slim fingers carding through her short hair.

Fiona takes a swig of her beer, before downing the rest of the dark blue liquid and replacing the empty glass by pouring more of the liquor into it. There isn’t nearly as much excitement afterwards because August and Sasha - as inebriated as they are - get Vaughn to a booth, laying him down and propping his head up to the side with the stack of dingy menus strewn about the bar.

It’s when Rhys is sheepishly returning to her side, bouquet in one hand while the other scratches at the back of his neck, that she notices the deep crimson burning his cheeks. She This must’ve been a different - stronger - vodka because she’s already feeling the effects of the alcohol coursing through her bloodstream. Is this another one of August’s concoctions? She’s isn’t sure. Her theory is proven further when there’s also the fact that she registers a moment too late that the reason why he’s blushing so hard is because his flesh hand is outstretched to her… the one that holds the bouquet in a white-knuckled grip.

“I told you flowers aren’t really my thing, Rhys.” She says, viridian orbs flickering between the flowers and the man who tries to look at her, but can’t for reasons beyond her. Despite herself, she can feel the heat getting to her cheeks as well, though she stubbornly chalks that up to the alcohol.

“Just take them, Fi.” He responds, baritone low. It takes a lot of willpower to grasp the bundled stems, mainly due to the fact that this can represent a lot of things that are beyond her comprehension at the moment. And she’s set on stubbornly keeping her distance from the man and blatantly refusing anything of the sort since he also mentioned that he’s interested in someone else. But she suddenly realizes her fingers brush his and she’s already grasping the flowers from him. What the fuck? Is she already that drunk that she doesn’t know what she’s doing? No, no, no. She’s not a lightweight in the least. Maybe this alcohol really is another one of August’s brews than the usual vodka because she can’t rationalize the way she’s shaky and unknowingly doing things without her permission.

She’s too distracted in her own thoughts that doesn’t even register the fact that the music slowed almost immensely so and Rhys is still holding his hand out to her. Fiona honestly doesn’t know what to make of the situation. At her silence, Rhys shifts uncomfortably under her dazed scrutiny that goes unnoticed by the man at her front. “C’mon. I won’t stomp on your feet. I promise… And it really looks like everyone is paired off except us…” he drawls, looking around the room.

Fiona mirrors him and looks around his lean frame. Unfortunately, he’s right. Janey is dancing with Athena, Sasha with August, and Gortys with Loader Bot. Fuck her to hell. Attempting to hide her internal turmoil, she straightens her back, placing the bundle of flowers on the table, and gently perching her hand in his larger one.

A part of her tries to not notice how warm his hand is - instead of the usual clamminess she’s used to - and that she’s staring at their clasped hands. And somewhere deep in those treacherous, muddled thoughts she has, she duly notes that she actually likes the sight of her hand in his larger one. God, who has she become? 

She’s realizes a beat too late that she still hasn’t made some comment on that, because Rhys is looking at her, bewildered. Mind scrambling from the sudden movement of standing from her seat, a snort escapes her, although it sounds more like a dying animal. “Of course, we wouldn’t want Atlas’ CEO to look like a total loser, right?” She mumbles, and for once, allowing him to guide her to the dance floor.

“You are  _ amazing  _ at flattery, you know that right?” Rhys responds, though there isn’t any venom laced in his voice, as he stops directly near the center.

“Just shut up, Hyperion.” Fiona smiles despite herself, circling her arms around his neck while he tentatively perches his own around her waist. The feeling is strange with one cold, hard metal and the other warm flesh grazing the small of her back. The gentlest of touches sends an unwarranted shiver down her spine and she can’t stand trying to decipher the meaning of it. Laying her cheek against his chest and biting her lower lip is all she can do to stifle her unreasonable need to step closer to him.

“You mean, Atlas?” He asks proudly, before chuckling nervously. However, even in her odd state of mind, she can feel more than hear the awkwardness and tension rumbling in his chest, which in turn, strangely calms her.

“Rhys,” Fiona warns. 

“Y-yeah, shutting up now!” He says hurriedly.

There isn’t much talking for the next two songs, especially when she’s internally warring with her own thoughts as they sway back and forth. But she catches sight of the three pairs matching their movements, while Vaughn is still out cold on one of the booths to her right. Sasha’s looking at her triumphantly and something in that small glint in her sister’s eyes causes her to frustratedly turn her head and focus her gaze on the man knocked out across her.

The lethargic music, the dance, the warmth that she feels exude from their combined body heat, Fiona silently relishes it. Her lips part as her eyes drift closed at the calming movements, and she nearly allows something stupid to come out of her mouth, but she catches herself and resolutely shuts up with a click of her teeth. Rhys must’ve noticed because she feels movement above her, and a moment later, his chin props atop her head.

Fuck.

Fiona knows she should pull away from him for her own sake, but everything in her body screams to stay in his arms. And the longer they sway to the slow music, the more she realizes that she doesn’t hate being so close to the dumbass. It’s the complete opposite, really. But maybe that’s just the alcohol talking.

Yeah, definitely the alcohol.


	4. Lull of the Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is longggggg overdue, but I felt some inspiration to finally get back into this. I’m so sorry for the wait!!! >;((
> 
> Feedback of any kind is welcome and appreciated! Enjoy!

She doesn’t know how they managed to get like this. Let alone who she’s doing this with. But the warmth she feels tingling in her body is a much needed reminder that she can still feel these kinds of things.

It’s been strangely - and not-so-strangely - a long while since the last she’s done something like this. Especially when someone can easily waltz right in into her quarters on Sanctuary.

But those worries are lightyears away in her mind. At the moment, she actually focuses on the pleasant feeling of someone doing this with her, someone who isn’t greedy or in need of a blind fuck, someone who actually matches each touch and glide of her hand against heated skin.

It’s different. A good kind of different.

It’s been years since she’s experienced this type of affection. The last was for a con she and Sasha were trying to pull off a few years before the Vault of the Traveler. Fortunately, Felix was attending to his own fraud that left Fiona pickpocketing a healthy sum of cash from their target and Sasha watching from afar. As a celebratory gift to herself, Fiona downed liquor by the bottle before tugging a woman who’d been offering her glittering eyes since she entered the rickety bar. She wasn’t expecting anything completely divergent from the regulars she fucked out of pure boredom - the rough, insatiable type of sex that either left her a stupefied mess, or irked by the fact that she was denied a release - but was pleasantly surprised by her finesse, especially from someone on Pandora. However that could’ve just been the alcohol talking.

The woman had been a few years older than she is now, guiding her almost, touching her in a way that left no room for coherent thoughts, no room to move an inch after feeling as though she were weighted rubber reveling in the fuzzy afterglow. A part of her relishes being just as active as her partner in bed, but that was one of the few times she let it slide for the sake of indulgence… Just as she is now. With that thought, she’s pulled back into the present, pulled back into what’s happening flush at her chest, and more importantly, what’s currently flowing with blood beneath her.

The body against her is solid, and as she straddles the person against her, Fiona notes that the sensation of her tongue tangling with theirs is a little more than intoxicating. It’s weird because she’s been so stuck on work, so stuck on the vault hunting life, that she gladly accepts this kind of attention from whoever this was. Odd because she usually has this instinct to shoot the dumb fuck away from her and make a grab for any of their prized possessions, yet that thought barely registers. At this point, does she even need to care?

They’re making her feel good, their altruism certainly not going unnoticed, and that’s all that matters at the moment. Their hands - one that’s scalding to the touch while the other is oddly cold - weaves through her short hair or settles on the swell of her hip. Their body - strangely lean from what she can gather considering her vantage point - presses flush against her own. Their lips - thin yet incredibly soft, as though they over indulged in chapstick for years - moves against her own full ones in an innocent rhythm.

Her heart leaps in her throat when those soft lips verge from her own to trail down the side of her neck. Whoever she’s doing this with probably notices because the tiniest of chuckles leaves their throat, and the smallest quirks of their lips curve upward.

What a jackass. She wants to pull their hair in a slight reprimand for that, but she isn’t about to do anything lest she ruins the mood. Given her last few experiences with drunken idiots, she knows better than to open her mouth and pull her gun out just to point it at their dick. The last time didn’t end that well, but at least she got some information about their mission on a tip off for a vault key.

Regardless, Fiona tilts her head to the side, exposing the smooth column of her neck to the person against her, and cards slim fingers through soft short hair. He’s immensely warm, and feeling the growing hardness she’s perched against, has her breath catching in her throat. It’s been too long and she’s mildly surprised that she’s even interested any more.

After nearly losing her life time after time from training, she doesn’t get that rush, that need to be close to someone in such a physical way. Not anymore at least. Not when her only companions usually were Mordecai, Athena, or even Maya. It’s not the same as it is when she’s alone with a bottle of Pandoran liquor, or even with-

No, no, no. She’s not going to finish that thought. Even when she did entertain it, it always left her utterly bemused and disgusted.

Instead, Fiona roves her hands over their shoulders and stops at the nape of their neck, tracing indecipherable patterns with her fingers against heated skin. She does this until she feels her body subtly rocking against theirs.

A part of her doesn’t realize that she’s quickly losing herself to the sensations of another human, or even the fact that her breathing is labored as she chews on her lower lip, until the other pulls away and she returns the favor. With each slow, tentative grind of their hips, Fiona releases the tiniest of moans as plump lips trail sweltering kisses down his throat.

A fervent thump is felt against her lips in a hypnotic rhythm, just above their carotid vein. It’s the heat of the moment that she cracks open bleary eyes, and through the darkness of her room, there’s one detail that has something in her know she should be revolted, or at the very least stop what she’s doing and rethink her actions. But for reasons beyond her comprehension, she decides to stay.

Blue tattoos.

They travel down the side of his neck, dipping lower and lower until they disappear beneath his disheveled button-up shirt. Fiona doesn’t know why, but the thought of stopping… whatever this is… well, it doesn’t sit well with her. She knows if she stops now, it’ll only get her frustrated, utterly unfulfilled, and that slow budding heat thrumming in her veins will only poke and prod at the back of her mind until she’s sated. She’s too worked up to do this on her own and she’ll be damned if she’s denied another orgasm after so long of not experiencing one.

So, she presses her body even closer to his and kisses his skin fervently. She fixates on that intoxicating pulse at his neck and sucks at the skin until there’s angry red flowers marring the surface glaring at her, before going lower and unintentionally tracing the intriguing path of his tattoos with her lips.

Maybe it’s curiosity deep in her subconscious, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but interest flickers hotter in the pit of her stomach. When she braves a glance up, Fiona immediately smiles against his skin, a chuckle dying in her throat before it ever has a chance of leaving. Before she can see that stupid glare he’d undoubtedly shoot her way.

However, there’s nothing there that indicates he’s vexed.

Instead, he looks dazed, mismatched eyes barely crack open while Fiona impatiently, blindly, tugs at the buttons of his shirt open. When it doesn’t give way, she pulls back and kisses him on the lips all the more ardently. She feels his cybernetic hand wrap around her wrist, probably to stop her from tearing his shirt because for one reason or another he loves that atrocious gaudy shade of blue, but with a heated glare, he reluctantly releases her as she continues to tug at the clasps. They finally unbutton and as she lethargically trails lower and lower, Fiona presses a hand to his chest and pushes him firmly into her sheets.

It’s something that she knew would make it all the more awkward between them, yet there’s nothing of the sort. There’s no bizarre need to dance around the words hanging above them, just as it had been at the wedding. There’s no guidance like the time she shared with that woman. There’s not even words of regret or hostility just as they exchanged in the past. No. There’s only them, in the heat of the moment of equal footing, indulging in the need for physical comfort.

And it just so happens that there’s some form of emotional comfort between them. She doesn’t like that there’s a flicker of that unnamed emotion there, but she can’t deny it any longer, the longer she puts off thinking about it. Fiona can feel it in the hesitant grazes of his fingertips, in the encouraging tangling of their tongues, in the glimmers of  _ something _ she never wants to associate him with in a mere glance.

It’s too intimate, it’s completely divergent from her experiences with the harsh Pandoran lifestyle, that she doesn’t know how to react. 

He’s utterly tender with her, and it almost makes her  _ want _ to reciprocate this foreign softness, but she doesn’t know how. Years and years of Pandora’s hostile life creeps up on her and a part of her wants to show him that same malice she’s shared with her partners in the past.

It can simply be because of the things he’s lied about in their past that eggs her on, but she knows they’ve moved past that ages ago. It can also be some sort of sick way to feel something familiar in this foreign affection he has poured on her, that she wants to hurt him in a way that expresses all the confusion she’s felt without voicing anything of the sort. She doesn’t know, but the warring in her mind makes her want to stop and take large gulps of oxygen before she takes the pleasure out of sex.

All of this is utterly confusing that it makes her wonder how she could easily detach her thoughts from her past flames. But then again, it isn’t that hard of a question to answer when she was doing these same albeit empty, veiled ministrations with strangers to fill that void temporarily.

Unconsciously, she kisses him harder, teasing him, threading her fingers through his soft hair and pulling it taut, enough so that he’s at her mercy. Her mouth salivates at the mere sight of him like this.

It frightens her that she’s feeling this amalgamation of emotions for someone -  _ him _ of all people - yet she can’t stop herself from releasing a shaky sigh, releasing him, before stripping herself of her vest, shirt and slowly her bra. A sense of vulnerability washes over her, but none of it makes sense when she’s done this multiple times with different people. An unknown thrumming rushes in her veins for all of a second before she decides to make use of his bulging, wandering eyes and strips herself of her pants and straddles him once more.

He’s completely unrelenting, acquiescing to her ministrations that there’s a hint of fascination in his gaze. It throws her off for a moment, but she quickly recovers and presses plump lips against his thinner ones again. He’s wonderfully responsive under the deft swipe of her tongue, but with each kiss, the more she can sense his willpower diminishing, as well as her own. 

There’s something urgent, something volatile in the kisses they exchange now as their lips collide, and she doesn’t know if it is because of her thoughts that’s encouraging her to feel this sort of restrained aggression, or if it is to divert her attention to merely swim in pleasure. She can’t say for sure, but her hand moves on its own as their heads tilt to deepen the kiss, and she steadies herself on her forearm that halfheartedly cages him in.

The same hand that tugged at his locks a few moments prior trail down to close around his neck. Only when she pulls away a fraction did she realize that there’s a gleam in his mismatched eyes that tells her he likes what she’s doing, and this only encourages her further. Fiona moves back into the kiss, catching his lower lip between her teeth before deliberately sucking on his tongue.

She never pegged him to indulge in the rougher side of sex, despite this being a very mild form in her experience. He’s always so sensitive and prissy and prudish that she assumed he’s nearly as innocent as a blushing bride. Regardless, Fiona takes this new information with some stride as she tightens her hold on him the slightest bit and waits for his reaction.

It comes immediately, to her amusement. A hitch of his breath and a shudder she felt run through his senses.

Grinding her clothed core against his hardened cock is all she can do to stop the breathy giggle from escaping. However, it stops completely at the delicious sensation of his metal hand roving the bare, warm expanse of her back. It sends amazing chills up her spine and inadvertently causes her hips to press even harder against his own as it ceases movement.

Despite it all, Rhys finally gives in and groans, the rumble of his voice vibrating against her lips as he repeats the tight motion. How interesting. It’s enough to lose herself in that rhythm, enough to loosen her forgiving grip on his neck and instead, grasp at the sheets beside his head. Within seconds, his flesh hand weaves in her short strands, mimicking her movements by tilting her head back to expose her throat to him while his metal one settles on the swell of her hips, gripping at her flesh with a newfound intensity.

She doesn’t know what broke between them, but their rampant lust, him sucking and licking at her neck is a short step away from his hand guiding her hips in a rhythm that rapidly increases in its pace, euphoria amplifying with each thrust, with each tight grind, with each collision of the groins.

Hazy viridian eyes close at the pleasure spiking within each nerve. She’s moaning, crying into the air around them that the thought of being found out is too much of a task to concern herself over. With each tug of his hand, Fiona matches with her own thrusts against him, until she’s nearly riding the wave of ecstasy. Subtleties barely register in her mind, except for him and her, and the impending weight of ecstasy ready to wash over them. The sounds of the grunts escaping his throat, her heady groans, the springs beneath them squeaking with the motion of their hips, she’s almost at the edge.

Heat prickles her cheeks and her toes curl into the sheets beneath them, but abruptly she’s denied the pleasure from the dumbass. She’s taken aback by the sudden movements, but he holds it over her head by releasing her completely before turning her over and he’s the one trailing open-mouthed kisses down her body. Down the valley of her breasts, down her toned stomach, and down to the elastic hem of her undergarments.

Everything happens so quickly that she wants to say something sardonic. She wants to smack him upside the head, but nothing comes. Instead, she sighs as an intriguing juxtaposition of hot and cold fingers curl around the lace hem, roving the thin piece of fabric down her legs and onto the heap of forgotten clothes. There’s something so willing, eager, earnest in his gaze that she hasn’t seen in a long while.

Fiona doesn’t want to think about those implications because those are feelings she shouldn’t be dwelling on. It happened all of a few times with different partners, but when she caught that hint, she’d leave them in a heartbeat. Pandora isn’t a place for romantic bullshit, or rather, she isn’t meant for hopeless romantics, let alone for someone like him who can barely string enough words to survive.

So why is it that she’s overwhelmed with that hint from Rhys, and she’s not doing anything about it except subconsciously reciprocating it?

No. She lays back and attempts to relax into the mattress beneath her before biting her lower lip and braves a glance at him.

There’s nothing present that reminds her of the typical Rhys she knows. For one, there’s an almost unrecognizable, darkened look in his eyes that offers her no semblance of the stuttering, awkward dipshit she saw on a regular basis. And another, those skaglips she recalled from their mission, held little to no meaning behind those sweltering kisses he offered her, let alone the ones he’s placing on the delicate skin of her thighs.

He’s kneeling at the edge of her mattress - just between the junction of her legs - and pressing a tender kiss to her inner thigh. His hands pry her legs apart, settling them atop his shoulders and tugging her closer to him with a jerk of his arms. Her eyes catch his, but there’s something too trusting, too intimate about witnessing that selfless surrender in his gaze. So, she breaks the contact and stares at the darkened ceiling, focusing on the few stray glimpses of light from different planets in the distance, a shuddering gasp filling her lungs just as his hot breath curled around her sex.

Relaxation is far from her mind when she feels that thick friction, that slick muscle of his stroke her core. Viridian orbs lazily close as she grips the sheets, as she begins to writhe under his ministrations.

There’s nothing normal about this, about Rhys doing  _ this  _ to her, but the longer he works at her, the more she can’t stop herself from moaning out his name. He’s unrelenting, persistent, confident in the strokes and suckles against her clit that her legs cage around his head. She doesn’t realize she’s doing such a thing until his hands leave her thighs, roving higher to pin her hips down, and releasing his flesh one to tease her core.

He curls and he pistons a finger, then two, into her and it’s all she can do to grasp onto anything she can reach.

Maybe it’s the pent up rage or frustration from the past year, but Fiona feels herself nearing that sweet release just as soon as he began. It’s embarrassing, really. To feel that sweltering flicker all over again, so rapidly, but her body needs it. It doesn’t help the fact that, for one reason or another, he’s actually good at something. The delicious sensation of his fingers reaching deep into her, his mouth utterly determined, his firm grip pushing her legs back and into the mattress to leave her completely at his mercy.

Odd is it that the tables have turned, though a large portion of her overwrought mind isn’t complaining in the least. Especially when that stupid mouth of his - that mouth that never seems to shut up, even for a fraction of a second - does these amazing things to her, let alone the lewd sounds from their coupling or the fact that his cybernetic hand pushes her all the more intensely, Fiona can do little more than cry into the open air.

Grasping at his short strands, her heart tugs in each sequestered corner with heated thrills. Her breath comes out in pants as her heart pounds against her chest despite everything in her being telling her she shouldn’t be feeling these amazing, fucking perfect sparks he’s producing against her sex. It isn’t right, it’s Rhys, but beyond all reason, Fiona moans out his name repeatedly.

With each flick of his tongue against her pearl and each pistoning finger into her cunt, she can’t control the needy, unintelligible sounds spilling from her kiss-swollen lips.

Again. And again. And again, she cries out until she feels the delicious vibrations of his muffled baritone against her. A new sensation certainly. Tilting her head back into plush cushions, Fiona’s brows pinch with pleasurable tension as a wave of rapture crashes through her, as she rides the wave with the stroke of his tongue, as she moans his name like a chant.

It’s when she releases a shaky breath that he pulls himself away from her, and before a whimper bubbles in her throat, Rhys chuckles almost nervously, both flesh and cybernetic hands grasping her quivering thighs. “Fi,” he mumbles, nearly as breathless as she is. 

But she doesn’t respond. Instead, she bites her lower lip and cracks hazy eyes open, motioning for him to come closer. It’s liberating to see that he acquiesces so easily under a sparkling gaze, yet it’s completely intriguing to witness him crawling above her, caging her in with the air around them sizzling with electricity, with her legs steadily closing around his hips to pull him flush against her.

“Fi,” Rhys calls once more, though this time in silent question, as if he’s asking for permission. She wants to laugh at that, at the fact that he’s still reluctant in her reciprocation.

“Fi!” She hears another voice through the haze of desire. But that doesn’t stop her. No, instead, it motivates her and she wiggles her hips directly beneath his own narrower ones. There’s only one layer between them as a barrier and her toes curl underneath the elastic band of his before tugging them down.

“Fi!” That voice comes again, but this time she’s knocked out of the daze. She’s not on Sanctuary, let alone doing  _ that _ with  _ him _ , and instead she’s in a small room just above the Purple Skag. 

Utterly disheveled with a heated flush coloring her ruddy cheeks in the darkness, Fiona wakes from her all-too-real dream and glares at the pillow that was thrown at her head, and her sister smugly leaning against the door frame. “W-what the hell, Sasha! I was sleeping!” She sputters, nearly pawing at her cheeks at the irritating fact that she’s  _ still _ blushing and that she’s blushing at all.

Scoffing, Sasha folds her arms across her chest and quirks a brow. “Yeah, and I was, too, but you keep moaning Rhys’ name. I can hear you in my room and that’s the last thing I want to hear when August is there.”

She wants to release some sort of sardonic laugh at that. Her? Moaning Rhys’ name? Sure, that’ll never happen… But a rather guilty part of her subconscious knows for a fact that with her train of thought, within the context of her dream… it was all a lie. “I… I was  _ not _ moaning his name! Tch, maybe you were just dreaming I was.” She denies. Twisting her features in a hardened glower, Fiona sits up and throws her legs around the edge of the small weathered mattress, tossing the threadbare blanket off her overheated body.

Evidently not believing a word she said, Sasha looks at her with something akin to amused pity. Is that a thing? Regardless, Fiona hardened her glare even more.

“Mhm, yeah, sure, sis.” Sasha nods with a smile. Ugly heat prickles at the back of her neck and she’s tempted to chuck the pillow at her sister all the more frustratedly, but Sasha interjects first. “Seriously, if you’re going to have some gross wet dream about him, keep it down at least.” She says in an afterthought, giddy, before closing the door with a click of finality.

Clenching her jaw, Fiona rubs her eyes in vexation. There’s nothing more irritating than having her sister know she has some sort of  _ grotesque _ feelings for the dipshit, and she isn’t about to go confirm anything when that dream is still fresh in her memory… even though she already did divulge such nauseating information a little while ago.

She flings herself back onto the mattress with a small bounce. In no way was she moaning Rhys’ name. In no way did she actually like what her imagination conjured up. And in no way was she ever about to act on those  _ stupid, idiotic _ feelings when this is Rhys she’s talking about.

It just doesn’t make sense. Him of all people, someone who quite literally ruins everything and screws everything up all unintentionally. The one in her dream is just that, a dream, a figment of her imagination, completely not real. As if the real Rhys she knew would ever make her feel like a pathetic, shivering mess, reveling in the afterglow of sex. Despite herself, she entertains it, the part of her that still recalls the small details of her dream, fresh like an open wound, and her hand unconsciously moves on its own, roving the length of her torso and leading to the place his tongue had offered his attention.

But then she realizes what she’s doing. 

Flinching her hand away from her body as if she’s burned, Fiona tucks that hand under her pillow and groans. God, what is wrong with her? She tosses and turns in rising ire, flushing and pursing her lips, adamantly focusing on her breathing and definitely  _ not _ her dream. Nope. No, no, no.

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
